


The Young Wolf's Prince

by MyLifeUnedited



Series: The Young Wolf's Prince [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Plotty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 116,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9746921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLifeUnedited/pseuds/MyLifeUnedited
Summary: "The Prince Who Was Promised?"There is much still you must learn, but you must do so now amongst the living. Jon Snow will not win this war unless you are by his side, Young Wolf.





	1. Resurrection

 

Robb comes to awareness slowly, first noticing the rising of his chest with each breath, then the coldness surrounding him, accompanied by wetness, and the wind rustling the curls on his head.

His eyes open.

He’s in the forest, lying atop the snow covering the ground completely and lining the trees around him. Slowly, numbly, he pushes himself up into a sitting position, resting on his forearms as he attempts to get his bearings.

**_What do you remember?_ **

Robb jerks at the thought swirling through his head; it sounds feminine, be he can’t be certain. It isn’t a voice he’s ever heard before. It wasn’t spoken aloud, only in his own head. He looks around for anyone, but there is nothing but snow and trees in all directions.

“Hello?”

His voice is rough and his throat aches. There is no response, and Robb ponders the initial question. What is the last thing he remembers?

 _Talisa, dead. Their_ child _, dead._

_Him. Dead._

Robb gasps as the events of Edmure's wedding come back to him, the fear and horror and rage warring inside him all at once. He jumps up and makes a startled noise as his bare feet sink into the deep snow. He looks down at himself and for the first time realizes he’s naked. Also, the snow is soft, coming up halfway to his knee.

_How had he been laying on it so simply?_

**_There’s no time, Young Wolf._ **

It’s the same voice and Robb desperately tries to find where it is coming from.

**_Focus, I’ll explain as briefly as I can. It has taken many nights to bring you back, Young Wolf, to give you back the body and mind taken from you. Listen, for you are here for a reason. You know of the Red Woman?_ **

Robb nods, not knowing if whatever the voice belongs to can see.

**_She is the blackness upon the Old Gods’ souls, Young Wolf. One reason for your own death._ **

Robb frowns.

“But…Roose Bolton? The Freys?”

**_Yes, they betrayed you, Young Wolf, of that we have no doubt. But the Red Woman knew that Stannis Baratheon could not be her savior unless you were dead._ **

“Stannis…I don’t understand.”

**_Your death was three years ago, Young Wolf._ **

Robb feels his knees go weak and he falls into the snow, numb to the coldness surrounding him now.

 **_And you would have_ ** **stayed _dead, Young Wolf, were it not for the Red Woman herself._**

“Why?”

**_She plays with fate she has no right messing with and has done something until recently considered impossible by a priestess. She has forever changed the war._ **

“And that means I am alive? Is that what she changed?”

**_No, Young Wolf. But if the Prince Who Was Promised is now alive, as he was not meant to be, he will need your help._ **

“I don’t understand.” Robb says desperately. “You’re speaking in riddles I cannot hope to solve!”

**_Jon Snow was supposed to die at the hands of his own men, Young Wolf._ **

The sound of his brother’s name shocks him more than anything. The boy he’d loved for so long – the boy he’d had to let leave for the Wall because Robb was the heir to Winterfell and Jon could not stay while his father was gone. He had missed his brother like a missing limb, and the day Jon had left, he’d taken a piece of Robb with him. A piece of his heart shared through stolen glances, playful kisses, and passionate nights locked in Jon’s bedroom on the other end of Winterfell. He knew he’d never see Jon again; and so he’d done his duty and had become the King in the North, had taken a wife and had produced an heir with her.

“Jon…is dead?” Robb chokes out.

 **_He_ ** **was _, but the Red Woman intervened. Jon Snow was her Prince Who Was Promised, and he was destined to die. But she brought him back to life, and in doing so has changed the_ world _, Young Wolf._**

Jon was alive; Jon had _died,_ and was now suddenly alive – because a priestess, a _witch_ , had wanted him to be. Because Jon was-

“The Prince Who Was Promised?”

**_There is much still you must learn, but you must do so now amongst the living. Jon Snow will not win this war unless you are by his side, Young Wolf._ **

Robb tries to understand what the voice means; Jon will _win_ this war? Jon is _destined_ to win this war?

**_We will not speak again, Young Wolf, but know you have been granted a second chance. See you don’t waste it._ **

Robb feels something inside him shift, a weight lifted off his chest, and he knows the voice is gone. He takes a deep breath and shakily rises to his feet. He can’t imagine the state he must look, naked and frozen to his core in the middle of a forest. He has no sense of where he is or where he’s meant to go.

He starts walking.

He isn’t sure how long he drags himself through the frozen forest or how long he can last in the blizzard, but he knows that the voice wasn’t going to let him die now – not if he was meant to help Jon win the war.

How strange that seemed, that the Bastard of Winterfell was somehow considered a prince. It made no sense, and yet it made Robb feel a giddiness similar to being fourteen and kissing Jon for the first time in the stairwell. The thought of being granted a second chance _to be with Jon_ was one too good to consider anything horrible happening. It was a war, yes, but if Jon was by his side and Robb by his, they could do anything.

With growing fatigue and his toes long-since gone numb, Robb is about to give up and try and get the voice to come back when suddenly he sees through the now-weakening storm the walls of Winterfell only a few miles further. With renewed ambition, Robb begins trudging faster.

What seems like hours later, Robb finally is close enough to see the walls in detail; the walls he can’t remember when he’d last seen.

He slows, realizing he doesn’t even know if Winterfell still _belongs_ to his family. Presumably, the Freys or the Boltons had taken it when they-

“Hey!”

Robb turns sharply and sees a group of armored men stomping towards him through the snow. They wear no marks or house sigils, though the one with crazy red hair and tall stature likely has a broken nose and the three others with him various bruises and bleeding-spots.

“Who the fuck are you?” Another man demands. He’s dragging behind him three deer carcasses. One of the other men is dragging four behind his sturdy frame.

“I’m-“ If he tells them his real name, they’ll probably shoot him for lying. “Naked.”

The four men share looks and then stare back at him.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a cloak or something? I’m a bit cold.”

Silence stretches on for a moment and then all four men burst into laughter and Robb settles a little. One of the men takes off his own cloak, soiled in dirt and blood, and hands it over. Robb tugs it around himself with a nod of thanks.

“Who are you?” The red haired man demands again.

“I need to see Jon.”

“Snow?” The men share looks once more. “And why the fuck should we let you in?”

“If he wants to see Snow, who are we to deny ‘im? If Snow don’t want to see his skinny arse, he’ll execute ‘im ‘imself!” The shortest of all four says, moving around Robb towards the entrance to Winterfell, pulling along a wooden sled piled with bows and spears.

Robb follows them, stopping abruptly to gape at the front doors, torn almost completely apart.

“Lady Sansa,” The red haired man begins, and Robb startles, moving to see his sister. She’s so much taller than Robb had last seen her, her hair perfectly tied back and her house colors wrapped around her warmly. She’s smiling, though it isn’t quite the smile Robb remembers, either. It’s a smile that shows signs of weariness and death.

“Keep him down there a few days.” Even her voice sounds more grown up. “If we’re lucky, the dogs will eat each other. If we’re not, shoot them. Don’t try and touch them or they’ll attack you.”

“Yes, Lady.” The red haired man nods. “But, we’ve someone here to see Jon.”

Sansa looks to where the man motions and freezes, her eyes going wide at the sight of Robb, hair a mess and struggling under the intense weight of the cloak he’d been given.

“ _Robb_ ,” Sansa breathes, taking a step forward and then stopping.

“I’ve missed you.” Robb tells her earnestly. Her eyes fill with tears, and Robb’s do the same. She launches herself at him, wrapping him in a tight embrace that he happily returns. The small girl he’d remembered was long gone, he realized with a hint of despair, but in her place was a stunning young woman who likely had seen much worse than a frozen and starving young man in her presence, even if it was a brother she’d long-since thought dead.

“How is this possible?” Sansa asks softly, releasing him just enough to stare at him.

“It’s a long story.” Robb says. “But I need to see Jon – _urgently_.”

Sansa nods, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. The four other men stare at them. She points to the deer.

“Take those to the kitchen, please, Tormund. I’m taking him to Jon.”

“Of course,” The man, Tormund, bows his head and all four men turn and drag their kills towards the kitchens.

“Come,” Sansa says, tugging Robb along into the place he’d long ago called home. The fires are lit and Robb sees ripped up banners of the Bolton House shredded and scattered around.

“We’re burning them,” Sansa tells him as she leads him along the halls. “Every last piece of Bolton _shit_ is going to burn.”

Robb blinks in shock, never hearing something so angry and bitter come out of his sister before. She returns his look with a steely gaze of her own. _My,_ Robb thinks, _you’ve missed a great deal._

They arrive in front of the door that once belonged to Ned and Catelyn Stark’s bedroom, but Robb supposes neither one has any use for it now. Saddened by the thought, Robb shakes himself and focuses on the sharp knocks Sansa applies to the door. A moment of silence passes and then a muffled voice calls, “ _Come in.”_

Pushing the door open, Robb is assaulted by the heat of the fireplace, blazing in glorious fashion, the hint of Bolton banners within its flames. Robb glances around in shock at the much-changed room before finding Jon standing off in a corner, staring at a wooden cross-like object erected there.

“You should burn it.” Sansa tells him. Jon nods thoughtfully, not looking over at them.

“I’ll get to it.” Jon tilts his head and then looks back at Sansa. “Is he dead?”

“The dogs won’t be hungry for a while.” Sansa tells him. “Also, I found someone who’s desperate to see you.” She then steps aside to reveal Robb. Jon turns fully and then freezes, his eyes locking on Robb’s.

Robb looks him over, a little unsettled by the mess made of his face. His hair is tied back messily and his face is dirty with mud and blood – whether or not it’s his own blood is a different matter entirely. It looks like he’s attempted to wipe it off, but it sticks around the edges. Robb sees a pile of bloody and mud-splattered armor near the fireplace.

“Robb?” Jon asks, frowning deeply. He looks at Sansa. “Am I seeing things?”

“I thought so, too.” Sansa says, looking back at her brother. “But Tormund brought him in. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a Bolton cloak.”

“Bolton?” Robb asks, instantly staring down at the cloak wrapped around himself. It’s so dirtied that he can just barely make out the sigil of a skinned man. “Gods, the man just gave it to me-“

“Why did you need a cloak?” Sansa asks at the same time Jon asks,

“How are you alive?”

Jon frowns at Sansa.

“I don’t think your question is really that important in light of current events.” Jon sounds tired, but his eyes are sparkling as he walks determinedly towards Robb. Without even hesitating, Jon wraps his brother into a strong grip. He’s grown in both height and muscle since leaving Winterfell and Robb, but it changes nothing about the way he feels so _right_ with his arms around him.

“I’ll tell you both quickly, but first, can I get some real clothes?”

“Of course,” Sansa nods, moving further into the room and opening a chest. “Not like Ramsay needs any of this anymore.”

Jon smirks darkly, something Robb doesn’t remember him ever doing before. Jon, too, is no longer as naïve as they all had once been.

“I don’t think Ramsay will have much of use of anything anymore.”

Robb isn’t sure he really wants to know what happened to Ramsay Bolton. He’s heard stories about the Bastard of Roose Bolton, but what is real and what isn’t had never been made clear to him.

Sansa comes back with nice, warm-looking clothing. She then moves towards the fire, putting her back to him. Robb quickly drops the cloak and shakes out the trousers to pull on. He feels Jon’s eyes on him, but finds he’s too cold to reciprocate the appreciation for seeing him again.

When he’s clothed and seated by the fire with his siblings, he begins.

“I awoke in the woods, no clothes, no nothing. I don’t know how I got there, or how I’m even alive. Someone was talking to me, but I have no idea who, or even if it was a person.” He knows he sounds crazy, but Sansa and Jon just let him continue.

“This voice told me that it had taken a while, but I was needed back here. That _Jon_ needed me back here.” Robb looks at Jon who is staring intently at him. “The voice said that the Red Woman had brought you back to life and that it changed everything.”

“Right,” Jon nods slowly, his eyes flicking to the fire.

“It said that because the Red Woman had brought you back to be the Prince Who Was Promised, that you needed me to win the war.” Robb frowns. “Firstly, why the hell is the Night’s Watch fighting in this war, and second, why are we calling you a prince now?”

“Because he’s not officially King in the North, yet.” Sansa says. Jon shoots her a look and it feels strange to Robb, to see Sansa and Jon acting like siblings instead of Sansa the Noble Lady and Jon the Bastard.

“King in the North?” Robb questions.

“Trust me, I don’t want the title.” Jon hurries to assure him. “But, well, things have gotten bad. _Really_ bad since you…died.” Jon takes a shaky breath and takes the band out of his hair, allowing it to fall into his eyes a bit. _This_ is more the Jon he remembers. “You can certainly have it back, if you want it.”

“It didn’t exactly go so great for me, last time, if you remember.” Robb tells him dryly. “Also, I guess I was brought back to _help_ you, not lead anyone. So, again, what is this about the Prince Who Was Promised, and why is the Night’s Watch fighting?”

“The Night’s Watch isn’t exactly fighting.” Jon tells him with a deepening frown. “It doesn’t even technically exist. The Wall is no longer truly holding anything.” He pauses. “Robb, it isn’t some old tale they told us as children. The White Walkers are _real_ and they’re coming.”

Robb stares at him. “What…you mean you’ve seen them?”

“I’ve _fought_ them.” Jon tells him. “I’ve seen what happens to men who get killed out there – and they’re coming whether we like it or not. I couldn’t honestly care less who sits on the Iron Throne, I care that an enemy that’s pretty fucking hard to kill is coming for us all.”

Sansa looks seriously at Jon, taking a deep breath.

“As for the Prince Who Was Promised,” she says, “Stannis Baratheon was supposed to be Melisandre’s Prince, but he was killed. And she’s no longer here.”

“Because she probably would have killed us all, too, if it was in her favor to do so.” Jon mutters darkly. He adds, “She had a vision of a Prince saving all of the Seven Kingdoms, and she had been sure it was Stannis. When she brought me back, she said that someone had to be the Prince Who Was Promised, and that it was me.”

“She might be right.” Sansa tells him.

“She might be wrong.” Jon shrugs. “I don’t care. Like I said, the Lannister’s can have the Iron Throne. It won’t matter if we’re all dead anyways.”

“If she was wrong, Robb wouldn’t be here.” Sansa points out.

“She’s right,” Robb nods. “I was brought back to help you because if you were alive, it meant you _were_ this prince.”

“I’m a _bastard_!” Jon exclaims, standing up and pacing the floor between them. Robb notices the slight limp in his right leg.

“What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Jon!” Sansa snaps. “I told you to get that looked at.”

“It’s fine.” Jon shakes his head. “I deserved it. I shouldn’t have charged Ramsay-“

“He killed Rickon.” Sansa spat. Robb’s heart stuttered.

“Rickon…I thought Rickon and Bran were dead?” Sansa looks at him sadly. Jon squeezes the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath.

“It was a lie. Ramsay wanted to play a game, and today he played another.” He says monotonously, no inflection at all. “He made Rickon run for me, made me think I could get to him in time, and I didn’t. Ramsay shot him with an arrow because I was too slow.”

“Jon-“

“I’m sure that isn’t true.” Robb cuts in. “From all the stories I’ve heard, Ramsay has always been sick in the head.”

“Worse,” Sansa says. She and Jon share a look before she looks back at Robb. “I married him. It was awful – but I had no other choice.”

“You _married_ Ramsay Bolton?!”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“How are you even still _alive?_ ”

“Theon,” Sansa says simply. Robb blinks at her in surprise.

“Theon? Theon Greyjoy? The man who betrayed-“

“Yes,” Sansa nods. She bites her lip and runs a shaking hand through her hair. “After everything, Ramsay took Theon hostage and he…Theon isn’t the same man anymore. What happened to him with Ramsay was – barbaric and horrifying. Ramsay called him ‘Reek’ and treated him like a pet to do with as he pleased. And let me tell you, _Ramsay pleased_.”

Robb stares at his sister in horror.

“From all the whispering around the grounds, he had Theon tied to that… _thing_ ,” she points at the wooden cross, “for days on end, torturing him slowly. Cutting off skin, keeping him awake, dumping water on him…up until Ramsay grew bored and started…taking off pieces.”

“Pieces?” Robb feels sick. Despite the betrayal Theon had inflicted, resulting in his own death, the thought of Theon in the grips of Ramsay Bolton was nothing short of terrifying.

“Fingers, toes…” Sansa shifts uncomfortably. “Cock.”

“He-“ Jon turns around sharply. “You didn’t tell me _that_.”

“When would have been a good time, Jon?” Sansa demands angrily. “’Oh, and by the way, Theon was beaten and sliced into submission and forced to play Ramsay’s sick games for years, and also, his _cock_ was cut off horrifically and sent to his father as a present so that not only was Theon no longer a _man_ , but now his whole family knew it’?”

They all fall quiet after her outburst and Sansa takes a deep breath.

“He told me…He told me that it was a lie. That Bran and Rickon weren’t _really_ dead, that it was someone else, but he was terrified to tell me anything because Ramsay always found out. And Ramsay would always find new ways to torture Theon. The fact that Theon hadn’t been beaten enough to help me escape is a miracle.” She looks at Robb. “I told him to come back with me, that Jon would forgive him if he knew what he’d done for me. He said he didn’t _want_ to be forgiven. That he’d deserved it.”

“He didn’t.” Robb shook his head sadly. “He…I thought he was my friend, but he was held at Winterfell for years without truly knowing his place. He took a chance to find his own way in the world, and it cost him everything.”

Jon sighs, limping back to the chair across from Robb and sitting.

“So, Ramsay died today?”

“A _lot_ of people died today. _I_ nearly died a hundred times. There’s an entire field past these walls filled with dead bodies on both sides.”

“It was horrific.” Sansa says quietly.

“Thank you,” Jon tells her honestly, his fingers squeezing her arm gently before letting go. “I _would_ have died today if you hadn’t done what you did.”

“I called in a favor I was owed – and I did what was right. Ramsay deserved to die.” She pauses. “Thank you for letting me do it.”

“It was the least you deserved, Sansa.”

“You said the dogs,” Robb says haltingly. “That his dogs weren’t hungry anymore?”

“I let his dogs eat him.” Sansa says, almost as if discussing the weather. Robb gapes at her.

“You… _what_?”

“Trust me,” Jon says with a dark laugh. “He deserved it.”

Robb looks between the two of them and realizes that it’s been a long time since he’s truly looked at them. Not only the three years he’s evidently been dead, but the years before that when Sansa had left for King’s Landing and Jon for the Wall. His whole family, split up.

“Where is Arya?” He asks suddenly. “And, if Theon didn’t kill Bran, where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa says. “The woman who helped me get back to Jon told me she’d seen Arya, and that she was okay, but that was it. Neither of us know what happened to Bran. He’s out there somewhere, but we haven’t seen him.”

“Gods,” Robb scrubs tiredly at his face.

“You need sleep.” Sansa says. “ _Both_ of you.” She adds, looking pointedly at Jon. She stands and leans over to give Robb another tight hug. “For whatever reason you’re here, I’m so glad you were given back to us.”

“Me, too.” Robb returns the hug and smiles fondly at her. Surprisingly, Jon stands and they embrace, something they hadn’t done since Sansa was old enough to realize Jon wasn’t a part of the family the way her other siblings were. Robb watches as Jon places a kiss on Sansa’s temple before releasing her. She squeezes Robb’s shoulder as she passes him and then leaves the room.

Jon, still standing, offers a hand to Robb, which he takes. Standing face to face, Robb suddenly feels his heart beat faster. Jon’s hand cups his jaw, searching his face.

“I don’t…” he looks like a lost boy for a moment, the hardness and weariness gone. “I’ve missed you _so much_.” He whispers into the small space between them.

“I’m here.” Robb tells him, his hands clutching tight to Jon’s hips. “I’m here, love. I’m so sorry I ever left.”

“ _I_ left.” Jon tells him, resting his forehead to Robb’s. They both close their eyes, breathing in sync. “I left you and I never should have. I belonged by your side.”

“You belonged on the Wall, Jon.” Robb tells him softly. He leans back a little and runs his fingers through Jon’s curls fondly. “We’re Starks – we’ve always done the honorable thing.”

“For once, I wish I’d been selfish.” Jon tells him, still not opening his eyes.

“Jon, look at me.” Robb begs.

“I can’t.” Jon whispers brokenly. Robb leans forward, brushing his lips across his brother’s temple, his forehead, his nose, his eyelids. “I’m afraid if I open them, you won’t really be here.”

“Open them, Jon.” Robb tells him more firmly. Jon hesitates and then his eyelashes flutter open to reveal dark eyes. “I’m right here.” Robb tells him before finally, _finally_ tasting him.

Jon makes a noise like a drowning man finally getting air (not knowing that he _had_ been a drowning man only a few hours earlier), his arms wrapping around Robb’s neck on instinct, and Robb tightens his hold on Jon’s hips. It’s not at all slow or teasing. Jon’s hands rake up Robb’s stolen shirt and scratch across his chest. Robb’s thumbs dig into Jon’s hips hard enough to leave dark bruises before sliding around his waist and into his loosened pants.

Jon takes a shaky breath against Robb’s mouth when Robb’s hands slide over his ass, squeezing just the barest hint, causing Jon to lean forward, their foreheads resting together once more.

“Tell me this isn’t in my head.” Jon pleads desperately. There are tears leaking from his closed eyes and dripping down his cheeks.

“I’m really here, Jon. Just for you. _Only_ for you, always.” Robb promises. His hands slip out of Jon’s pants and grab his hands instead. He begins pulling him gently to the bed across the room. When they get to its edge, Robb spins them and pushes Jon down onto the thick mattress. He kneels and begins pulling off his brother’s boots. Jon watches him closely, soaking in the realization that Robb is truly alive and with him.

Boots off, Robb slides his hands up Jon’s legs, cresting over his thighs, and make neat work of his laces before pulling off his pants. He tosses it behind him and motions for Jon to scoot back, which he does. Robb climbs on top of him, thighs hugging Jon’s legs between them, and his hands slide up Jon’s shirt.

“I love you.” Robb tells him simply, truthfully. “I always have, since we were fourteen and exploring in the stairway to the tower.”

“ _Robb_ ,” Jon stutters out his name through a gust of air. Robb pays no attention, gently removing Jon’s shirt, leaving him in his small cloth.

“And you were _so_ beautiful, gorgeous curls always on display, your lips thick and just waiting to be kissed.” Robb pulls his own shirt off as Jon’s hips jerk, rubbing into his own groin for a moment before he falls back to the mattress. Robb unlaces his own breeches.

“And I wanted you. _Gods_ , did I want you. So much I ached for it. I don’t know how many times I stayed awake at night thinking of you, so hard it _hurt_ , and knowing you were so close only made it worse.”

“You could have had me.” Jon tells him quietly. “Anytime.”

Robb tilts to the side, shaking out of one pant leg and then doing the same with the other side. He settles once again on top of his brother, staring at the beauty that was Jon’s head of hair sprawled out, shorter than it had ever been, but still just as enticing to thread his fingers through and _yank_.

Jon moans loudly, his hips jerking once more. Robb leans over him and stares for a moment at his bared throat before he mouths at the underside of Jon’s jaw. His lips to Jon’s skin, he says, “I didn’t think I could ever have you. There were so many things wrong with it.”

He leans back just enough to look at Jon, whose eyes flutter open to stare at him with pupils blown wide in exhilaration and arousal.

“But I never accounted for how _right_ it would feel to finally kiss you.” He leans back down, places a chaste kiss on Jon’s throat, and pulls back again. “To hold your hand, to play with your hair, to be more than a brother to you.” He kisses him on the lips, tugging a little with his teeth to Jon’s bottom lip before leaning back again. “And the first time we fucked, _gods_ , Jon, but I knew I was ruined for anyone else.”

Jon blinks up at him, his eyes filled with so much hope yet so much sadness, it breaks Robb’s heart. He leans forward and kisses him once more before pulling back just enough so his lips brush Jon’s when he speaks.

“What is it?”

When he looks back up at Jon’s face, he’s crying. Robb startles, wiping the tears with his thumb and worriedly cupping Jon’s face with his hands.

“Jon, what is it? Is something wrong?”

Jon shakes his head, his eyes squeezed shut as if in pain, and he lets out a small whine. Robb kisses his forehead and wraps him in his arms, begging anyone who will listen to make everything all right.

“Robb,” Jon chokes out. “I got the raven that you had died and I…I had never felt pain like that. I could fight a thousand battles and never come close to that.” Robb rolls to the side and just holds Jon, then, who tucks his face into Robb’s neck.

“I know, love.” Robb tells him softly.

“I hadn’t even been angry, when you and Talisa – and when I found out she was pregnant.” Jon tells him quietly, his lips brushing Robb’s skin with every word, each breath ghosting across his neck hotly. “Because you were happy and you were alive-“

“Hey,” Robb grabs his chin, pulls him far enough away to look him straight in the eye. “I was _never_ as happy as when you were here.”

“I know,” Jon tells him honestly, his finger coming up to trace the side of Robb’s face to distract himself when he says, “But it was okay, because we both made our choices, and if you were safe, I knew it would be all right. But after that… _nothing_ was all right after that raven. Knowing I would never see you again, would never be able to – be able to-“

“Shh,” Robb hushes him, brushing his curls with his lips. “Everything is going to be okay, Jon. Everything, from this moment on, is going to be better.”

“How can you be so sure?” Jon asks him softly. “We’re at war…they expect me to be their _king_. I can’t be anyone’s king, Robb. _You_ were meant to be in this place, ruling these people. I’m Ned Stark’s bastard, nothing compared to you-“

“You are _not_ nothing, Jon Snow.” Robb tells him sharply. “And you will be a great king, because we will do this together.” Robb smiles gently at him, cupping his face to make sure he’s listening. “You will _never_ be alone again, Jon. I’m here, and I’m staying, and we are going to do this together.”

“I love you so much, Robb.” Jon whispers. Robb surges forward and kisses him, allowing his mouth to tell Jon every promise he can’t find the words to vocalize. They kiss until they can’t breathe and then they allow their hands and lips to wander. Finally, after a long time of simply reacquainting themselves, Jon rests his hand on Robb’s heart.

“Robb?” He asks breathlessly.

“Yes?” Robb looks at him, his eyes shining bright blue.

“Make love to me.”

Robb smiles, kisses Jon once, and nods. He then slides away from Jon and moves across the room. He finds oil on the mantle place above the fire and then moves back to the bed just in time to see Jon ridding himself of the last of his clothes. His beautiful, pale skin is marred in bruises and scars, both old and new. Robb will never know all of their origins, but he hopes to begin learning them all. He sets the oil beside the bed and strips before climbing back onto the bed and over to where Jon lays waiting for him, cock hard and leaking. Robb fits between Jon’s legs, the way he always had, and his mouth begins kissing from Jon’s chest down to his abdomen. He bites down on Jon’s hip, causing his brother’s hips to jerk harshly and Jon to release a deep moan of want. Robb stretches his arm out for the oil and coats his fingers, his mouth kissing at the sensitive area around Jon’s cock while his arm carefully lifts one of Jon’s legs slightly and caresses his hole.

Jon whines, a sound deep in his throat, and Robb finally takes him in his mouth at the same time his first finger breaches the tight heat of Jon’s body. He remembers the first time they’d done this, how Jon had blushed bright red, embarrassed at the noises he couldn’t help but make, until Robb had told him it there was nothing more arousing than Jon caught in the whims of such intimacy. It had taken time to get Jon to fully allow Robb to see him; to allow Robb to break Jon down so deep, until he was nothing but a whimpering mess, and then gently put him back together.

Jon makes a sound of desperation and Robb adds a second finger, massaging the tight muscle and carefully spreading his fingers to stretch him. One of Jon’s hands slides into Robb’s hair and holds there, not tightly or harshly, just grasping at anything to center himself. His other hand fists into the sheets beneath him, seeking purchase for when he does what Robb expects. He pushes forward slightly, his cock sliding effortlessly further into Robb’s mouth. Robb hums around him, and Jon moans again at the sensations. Robb pulls his mouth off Jon’s cock and bites once again at his hip, causing enough distraction to oil his fingers again and then add a third finger. Jon plants his heels desperately into the bed, giving Robb better access to his ass, and Robb flexes his fingers, knowing he’s hit that tangle of nerves just right when Jon shudders deeply, a keening noise pulled from his throat.

“Please, Robb,” Jon begs, his face flushed and eyes so dark, there’s almost nothing but pupil. “Please, I’m ready. I need you, please.” Robb pulls his fingers free then. Jon makes a noise of distress at the sudden loss, but is quieted by Robb leaning forward to kiss him. His tongue slides into his brother’s mouth, licking across the top of it and then scraping his teeth against Jon’s swollen lips. He leans back and coats his own leaking and desperate cock with oil and settles once more between his brother’s legs.

“Robb,” Jon begs, his voice breathless and so arousing Robb isn’t sure how long he’ll truly last. He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, making sure that there’s nothing but pleasure for his lover. Jon gasps, his fingers gripping Robb’s arms tightly as Robb slides all the way inside him. Robb moves Jon’s legs until they're wrapped around his waist, and then pulls back just enough to slam back in. Jon moans so loud, Robb is glad that his parents’ bedroom had been in its own corner, lest anyone else were to hear Jon caught so fully in the throughs of passion – with his _brother_ , no less.

“Gods, Jon, you’re so beautiful.” Robb tells him, his lips sucking on Jon’s bared throat as Jon’s fingers slide into his hair and tangle there. Robb begins moving slowly, giving Jon enough time to really get comfortable with the new sensations, before he really starts driving home.

As expected, after years of being away from one another, neither of them last long. Robb knows Jon is close as Jon’s breath becomes little gasps, his eyes squeezed shut, and his back arching gloriously.

“Come for me, Jon. Please. I want to see you.”

That’s all it takes and Jon is coming, coating them both in stripes of white. Robb feels himself following, and he makes sure to hit that bundle of nerves inside Jon as he does, knows he’s done so when Jon moans deeply into Robb’s mouth as they kiss. Robb’s release explodes out of him and he rocks into Jon through its aftershocks until there’s nothing left but shuddering and gasping.

For a moment, neither of them move, and then Robb slowly slides out of him, noticing the wince Jon makes when he does. Robb reaches over the side of the bed and picks up the shirt he’d worn – Ramsay’s.

“D’you think he’d mind if we used this to clean up a bit?” Robb asks, staring innocently at Jon. Jon barks out a laugh, a smile lighting up his face like it so rarely did, even when they were children. Robb smiles fondly at him and kisses him, using the shirt to wipe at the mess on their stomachs. He gently wipes at Jon’s bare back and ass, hushing Jon with kisses when he rubs across the sensitive area of his hole to make sure there’s no mess left to stick to them uncomfortably. He drops the shirt back onto the floor and pulls Jon to him, wrapping the man into his arms.

“The day you left for the Wall, I thought I’d never see you again.” Robb tells him honestly. Jon pushes his nose into the underside of his jaw, letting him know he’s listening. “I accepted it, then, despite how much it hurt. It’s when I knew I’d never love anyone like I loved you. You were being so brave, so selfless, that I knew no one would ever compare to you.”

“Robb,” Jon tries to shush him, hating it when Robb compliments him. Robb leans back to look at him.

“But here we are. Both of us in lives that should have been taken from us forever. We’re _alive_ , Jon. Despite knives and swords and betrayals and war, we’re here and we’re together.”

“Always,” Jon whispers, leaning forward and kissing him. Robb sighs into his brother’s mouth, holds him a bit tighter.

“I love you, Jon Snow.” Robb tells him quietly.

“I love you, Robb Stark.”

“Sleep,” Robb tells him.

“I don’t know if I can.” Jon tells him. “What if I wake up and find that none of this is real?”

Robb kisses him and reaches over to pull the blankets over them both.

“I’m going to be right here. Sansa saw me, your man Tormund saw me, this isn’t in your head, Jon. Despite how unreal this whole thing is, despite White Walkers and Ramsay Boltons, we’re both here and we’re going to do this. Together.”

“Together,” Jon agrees faintly, already feeling exhaustion pulling him to sleep. Robb kisses his forehead and they fall asleep wrapped in one another.

 


	2. Bastard of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, your kind comments and excitement forced me to continue this story :) The best part is after this chapter I can basically take things in whichever direction I choose, so be prepared for some craziness as storylines get pulled out of my butt. It's gonna be _great_!

 

Robb wakes up alone.

He turns from where he’s been lying on his stomach, face smashed into a pillow, and sees Ghost trudging slowly towards him. When the wolf meets Robb’s eyes, he swears the wolf brightens, and suddenly Ghost lunges onto the bed and starts licking at Robb’s face happily.

Robb laughs, playfully pushing at Ghost’s muzzle, but rather than shoving the wolf off him, he finds himself gliding his fingers through the incredibly soft fur as Ghost snuggles fondly into his neck.

“I see you’ve been reacquainted.”

Robb looks over at where Jon enters the room, dressed in a pair of breeches and boots, no shirt. With the light streaming through the windows, Robb can see all of the scars and awful-looking bruises covering his torso. Ghost quickly jumps off the bed and follows at Jon’s heels, silent as…well, a ghost.

“Do you…” Robb trails off, not quite sure how to ask. Jon looks at him curiously, reaching absentmindedly down to scratch at Ghost’s ear. “Do you know what happened to Grey Wind?”

From the darkening of Jon’s face, he knows the answer likely isn’t at all good or pleasant.

“They…” Jon sighs, walks to the mantle and pulls down a bucket which he sets on the floor. “After… _gods_.” Jon squeezes the bridge of his nose and Robb sits up, frowning at him.

“They decapitated you and Grey Wind, sewed Grey Wind’s head onto your body, and paraded you around.” Jon says in a rush, as if just hoping to get the words out and over with. Robb’s mouth opens in shock, not knowing how to even begin processing that information.

“They…”

“Yes.” Jon nods firmly, obviously hoping to not continue the conversation. He’s saved from having to do so by a knock on the door proceeded by a man and a woman entering with a basin of hot water. They set it on the ground and the woman quickly exits. The man pulls a bag from his shoulder and tosses a thick hunk of meat into the bucket Jon had set on the floor. Ghost quickly trots to it and begins eating while the man just turns and leaves – neither says a word or even glances in Robb’s direction. Robb looks at Jon, who is staring openly in disgust at Ghost.

“You’re horrendous.” Jon tells the wolf. “Honestly, a completely useless animal with no manners. Why do we even keep you?”

Ghost stops eating, looks up at Jon with contempt written all over his face, and then goes back to eating. Robb laughs out loud and Jon rolls his eyes. He then walks over to the basin of water and toes out of his boots. He’s still got a bit of mud and blood on his face, having not washed it off that night, and then tugs off his breeches.

“You look like one of the practice dummies after you, me, _and_ Theon have had a go.” Robb comments as Jon steps into the basin of hot water and sits down, a groan escaping his mouth as he slumps into it.

“I don’t care.” Jon says tiredly. Robb smiles to himself, climbing out of bed and walking over to the basin. He steps into the water and hisses at the heat before sliding in opposite his brother, the basin barely big enough to hold them both. Their legs intertwine, knees bent to keep themselves upright and settled. Jon smiles at him, eyes closed.

“I can’t even remember the last time I had a proper wash.” Jon tells him. “I think…maybe a fortnight? Probably longer. I think we’ve just been going since I woke back up.”

“Woke back up,” Robb repeats slowly. “You mean, came back from the dead?”

Jon blinks his eyes open and offers a small shrug.

“The voice, in the woods, it said your own men did that to you.”

Jon frowns, reaching to the side of the basin where some soap is lying on the stone floor. “They…well, I was Lord Commander out of necessity, but it wasn’t like they wanted me there. It became a battle between me and some of the men, and they decided the best course of action was to deliver justice with their knives ‘ _for the Watch’_.” Jon says the last few words darkly, scrubbing at his arms in frustration. Robb frowns.

“Isn’t that treason?”

“It is.” Jon states, dragging the bar of soap through his hair roughly, until finally Robb grabs his wrist and takes the soap.

“Let me do it,” He says. Jon sighs and turns carefully in the water, settling with a small huff between Robb’s legs, as if it’s some horrible inconvenience for him to get his hair washed. Gently, Robb starts lathering the soap into Jon’s hair, massaging his brother’s scalp until Jon fully relaxes against him.

“Looks like we have that in common, then.” Robb comments dryly. “Always killed by the ones we least expect, _when_ we least expect it.”

“They didn’t parade me around.” Jon comments softly. “They just…left me there. Wanted me to bleed out in the cold.” He says it so simply, as if him dying in the cold and wet doesn’t break Robb’s heart. “It was almost peaceful, near the end. It felt like I’d just fallen asleep, a really deep sleep.”

“Then what?” Robb asks, cupping water into his hands to get the soap out of Jon’s hair.

“Suddenly I was lying in a room at Castle Black. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like something was wrong, and I was covered in stab wounds that weren’t healed at all because I was _dead_!” Jon sighs. “Davos was there, luckily, got me to calm down a bit, and then Melisandre was telling me about the Prince Who Was Promised. It was all a bit bizarre.”

“Davos,” Robb hums, pushing Jon forward to clean his back. “He’s been a friend to you?”

“Almost like a father, really.” Jon says. “Couldn’t ever compare to our father, but he was the closest I’ve had in a long while. The closest _family_ I’ve had in years!”

“I’m sorry, Jon.” Robb tells him, kissing at his shoulder. Jon leans back and turns his head, kissing Robb deeply.

“Don’t be,” he says. “All in a day’s work, coming back to life, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Robb chuckles. Suddenly, something cold and wet pushes at his arm and he turns to see Ghost staring at him with that unnerving red gaze. Jon looks at Ghost and reaches out, flicking his nose gently.

“Get your own,” he tells the wolf. Ghost bites playfully at Jon’s hand before huffing and trudging towards the bed. He jumps up onto it and falls into the soft mattress.

“What is wrong with him?”

“He gets like this sometimes, ever since I woke up.” Jon tells him, turning and motioning for Robb to turn as well. Robb does, handing Jon the soap and situating himself between his brother’s knees. Jon slowly lathers the soap into Robb’s red curls and starts washing out the sweat and dirt of the previous day. “I don’t know, maybe he thinks I’m going to die again. I don’t mind, really, except when he decides that I can’t spend a second out of his sight.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“He’s the only one left,” Jon says quietly. Robb tilts his head to look at Ghost.

“The fighter,” Robb comments.

“Look at ‘im.” Jon laughs. “Everyone’s too bloody scared to touch him.”

“Much like you.” Robb turns and settles into Jon’s lap when the soap is rinsed from his head, tracing the scar on Jon’s face softly. Jon’s hands hold onto Robb’s hips as he closes his eyes under Robb’s inspection.

“Am I so scary?” Jon whispers.

“No,” Robb tells him. “You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t.” Jon turns his head out of Robb’s grip and looks just past Robb’s arms. Robb sighs.

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it’s never true.”

“It _is_!” Robb says firmly, grabbing Jon’s chin and forcing him to look at him. “You’re _beautiful_ , Jon, always have been. And I’m going to keep telling you until you believe me.”

“Okay,” Jon whispers. Robb nods, appeased, and kisses him. Jon’s hands tighten on Robb’s hips and his cock twitches with interest. Slowly, Robb begins to move his hips, creating a teasing amount of friction that has Jon shuddering into Robb’s mouth. Robb reaches between them in the cooling water and grips them both, beginning to move his hand in rhythm with the thrusting of his hips. Jon’s breathing has gone raspy, his lips moving to Robb’s shoulder where he places gentle kisses.

The door chooses that moment to open, causing Ghost to growl lowly and Robb to startle in the water.

“Oh my gods!” Sansa shouts, quickly turning in mortification and exiting the room. Robb gapes down at Jon, whose face is dark red in embarrassment. Robb’s shoulders start to shake with laughter and he collapses against Jon, laughing into his brother’s skin. After a moment, Jon joins him. Their erections have completely fled them, but Robb still grips the back of Jon’s neck and pulls him back in for a kiss before he swings himself out of the tub and then helps Jon out.

“I don’t even know how to begin to explain…” Jon says, grabbing a pair of clothes for himself and tossing another pair of Ramsay’s pants to Robb.

“Tell her the truth.” Robb suggests. Jon gapes at him and Robb shrugs. “Why not? It’s not like I’m letting anyone else have you.” Robb grins, slides up to his brother’s side, and kisses him deeply. Jon returns the kiss hungrily before Robb pushes him away and moves towards the door. He opens it as Jon pulls on a shirt, Robb being without one, and looks at Sansa, whose face is as red as Jon’s had been.

“What in the name of all of the gods was that?” She demands, pushing into the room.

“What did it look like?” Robb asks, earning him an unimpressed look from Jon.

“How long has this been going on?” Sansa asks in exasperation.

“Since we were fourteen,” Robb answers. Sansa stares at him incredulously and looks to Jon for confirmation. Jon shrugs and then nods in agreement.

“ _Fourteen?_ ” She screeches. “But…Talisa?” Sansa stares over at Robb.

“Jon left for the Wall and I had a duty.”

“But you didn’t love her?” Sansa asks softly, looking heartbroken in a way Robb can’t even begin to understand.

“I did.” Robb assures her. “Just never like I loved Jon. Like I _love_ Jon.”

Jon’s face flushes in embarrassment. Sansa seems unsure how to handle the situation, but rather than flee in embarrassment as she might have done when still a girl, Robb admires the way she seems to pull herself together before looking at Jon seriously.

“They’ve called a meeting in the dining hall for midday.”

Jon scrubs at his face tiredly and then nods his head.

“Who?”

“Lyanna Mormont,” Sansa says. Jon’s lips quirk in amusement.

“Of course she did. Anyone else?”

“Obviously Lords Glover, Manderly, Cerwyn and the others were instantly aware and in agreement with the meeting. “

“Right, okay,” Jon moves past them and opens a second chest, pulling out a belt which he fastens around his waist and then a cloak with Stark colors. Robb finds himself aroused by the sight of Jon not as a simple bastard, but as an apparent lord.

Robb shakes himself and goes about claiming a shirt and a cloak from Ramsay’s chest, which he’s decided to make his own. He pulls on a pair of Jon’s boots and the three of them depart from the chambers, Jon walking between Robb and Sansa.

“Lyanna Mormont,” Robb says. “Maege Mormont’s daughter?”

“Yes,” Sansa nods. “She’s been Lady of Bear Island for the past few years since her mother died.”

Robb nods and Jon smirks. “Don’t underestimate her,” Jon tells him with a smile. “She’s tiny, but scarily competent.”

They stop once they get to the doors leading outside.

“Some of them will recognize me,” Robb says. Jon frowns at him. “I can’t be seen yet.”

“Why not? We can explain that you-“

“They’ll try to give me the title of King in the North again.” Robb cuts him off. “And that isn’t the reason I was brought back.”

“Wait until the meeting is underway.” Sansa tells him. “If you come in the back quietly and keep to yourself, no one should notice you.”

With that agreed upon, Sansa and Jon exit the castle and Robb wanders the hallways of Winterfell. He comes to a stop in front of his old bedroom and looks inside. Someone has apparently taken up occupancy, but except for the weapons that don’t belong to him and the clothes on the ground, it looks the same as when he left.

With a sad smile, he continues down the hall. He looks at the room Bran had called his own, where he’d lain for many nights without waking or moving. He would never move again. He wonders where he and Arya were.

Arya’s bedroom is a mess of weapons and bloody armor. Whoever had claimed this one was doing their best to dirty every available surface it seemed.

He’s about to look into Rickon’s old chambers when a horn sounds outside, signaling the meeting was about to begin. Robb pulls the hood of the cloak far enough over his head to cast a shadow on his face. He moves back down the hallway and exits into the gradually falling snow. As he approaches the door to the dining hall on the opposite end, he hears the dull roar of a chattering crowd.

As expected, no one pays him any attention as he slips inside. On one side of the room are the Wildling men he’d followed the day before, all seated and eyeing the crowd warily. Lord Manderly is the loudest, boisterously arguing with someone in the seat across from him. Jon and Sansa are seated at the front table, Sansa looking annoyed and unsure while Jon just looks uncomfortable.

“-Knights of the Vale to _side_ with _Wildling invaders!_ ” Someone yells. The Wildling named Tormund looks at the man in annoyance.

“We didn’t _invade_ , we were _invited_ ,” He says with a roll of his eyes, as if he’s had this conversation before. Knowing the men in the room, he likely _has_ had this conversation many times over.

“Not by me.” The man sits down and Jon’s eyes flick to Robb’s before he stands up sharply.

“Free Folk,” he begins, “The Northerners, and Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we _won_.” A pause where Jon looks helplessly at Robb. “My father used to say we find our true friends on the battlefield-“

“The _Boltons_ are defeated!” Another lord stands up to argue. “The war is over. Winter has come! If the Maesters are right, it’ll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storm.”

“The war is _not_ over.” Jon snaps in a low voice, unquestionable authority in his tone. “And I promise you, friend, the true enemy won’t wait out the storm. He _brings_ the storm.”

The lord sits down, chastised, and the crowd begins to murmur amongst themselves. Robb looks around at the different houses that had come to his brother’s aid; not many, not as many as would be if Jon hadn’t been a bastard. As Jon remains standing, watching the crowd, a small girl stands up from the bench.

“Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly.” She states, the room quieting to hear her. “But you refused the call.”

She turns to another lord to her right.

“You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover. Yet, in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call.”

She turns to the man who had spoken to Jon.

“And you, Lord Cerwyn, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refused the call.”

Robb looks at Jon, who is staring at the little girl intently. He guesses this must be little Lyanna Mormont, the fierce Lady of Bear Island. The thought brings a smile to his lips as he listens.

“But House Mormont remembers. The _North_ remembers! We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don’t care if he’s a bastard; Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. He is my king, from this day, until his _last day_.”

Robb freezes, those words ringing clear in his ears, but not with Lyanna’s small voice. He remembers Theon, looking at him in earnest, saying he would be Robb’s brother until his last day.

Only, it was Theon Greyjoy who caused his last day to come to fruition.

Jon and Lyanna look at one another, and Robb wonders about the judgement Lyanna Mormont has made towards Jon. He knows Jon must have rightfully earned the title of a great warrior and maybe even King in the North, but for the other Northern Houses to believe so, shows Robb how much he’s missed in his time in death.

The crowd begins to talk again and Lyanna sits down with a nod to Jon, who looks stricken. Robb understands his response; Jon was never trained to be a warrior or a lord, let alone a king. Robb had always known _he_ would one day hold such titles.

Lord Manderly stands up suddenly.

“Lady Mormont speaks harshly, and truly.  My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf,” Robb’s heart stutters at the nickname. “I didn’t think we’d find another king in my lifetime; I didn’t commit my men to your cause – because I didn’t want more Manderlys dying for nothing.” He looks at Jon attentively. “But I was wrong. Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding. He is the White Wolf, the King in the North!” He holds up his sword and kneels with it.

The air in the dining hall becomes tense as murmurs arise in the crowd. Lord Glover stands and faces Jon.

“I did not fight beside you on the field, and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he is wrong, and ask forgiveness.”

Robb looks to Jon, who swallows and looks honestly at Lord Glover.

“There’s nothing to forgive, my Lord.” Jon responds. Lord Glover lets out a breath of air.

“There will be more fights to come,” he says to the crowd. “House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years.” He looks back at Jon. “And I will stand behind Jon Snow, the King in the North!” He raises his sword and kneels.

Another man stands and raises his sword, shouting, “The King in the North!” And then everyone is standing and chanting, the same way they had those few years ago, when Robb stood before them. Jon stands and looks down at Sansa, who smiles at him encouragingly.

Robb leaves as quickly as he had come, unseen to all except one. The eyes of Petyr Baelish hardly ever miss anything, and of course he sees the hidden figure disappear through the door before anyone can truly think to wonder who it had been.

Baelish turns and locks eyes with Sansa, who until then had been smiling. Her face drops at the sight of Petyr, and he wonders if she knew who that figure had been – and if perhaps there was more to this story that Petyr should know.

∞

Robb is seated by the fire when Jon enters the room later that evening. Robb can still hear the sounds of drunken joy coming from the window – the men are excited and happy to have found a king once more. Robb wishes he could be as happy as them.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks, removing his cloak as he walks towards his brother. “I thought it was me who was supposed to brood by the fire.”

Robb turns to look at him and sees Jon’s cheeks are pink from the drink, his hair wild around his face. He’s lovely, even drunk and disheveled.

“I’m just thinking,” Robb says. Jon nods thoughtfully and toes out of his boots.

“And what were you thinking about?” Jon asks. Robb, who had looked back at the fire, is surprised when his brother suddenly swings a leg over his thighs and straddles him in the large chair. Robb can’t help but laugh, his hands automatically going to Jon’s hips to steady him.

“Nothing of importance,” Robb tells him. He leans up to kiss him but Jon leans back, frowning.

“You’re lying,” He says. “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying-“

“You are.” Jon cuts him off. "It’s always been easy for me to tell.”

“Jon-“

“Why are you lying to me?”

Robb looks at Jon sitting above him, sad and wild – just like he always had.

“I was just…it reminded me of how it was. When they crowned me their king, how it had felt.”

Jon nods slowly, his hand coming up to play with one of his red curls. He doesn’t respond, just waits for Robb to continue like he knows he will. He always needed time to get his thoughts together.

“I just…I miss it. That’s all. I missed that rush of excitement and intenseness of being a king.”

“And you lied because…?” Jon looks him straight in the eye. Robb doesn’t answer. “Robb, it’s okay that you miss it. You’re going to be by my side; you said we were doing this together.”

“And we are,” Robb promises. “We’re doing this together.”

“Okay, then,” Jon smiles finally, shy and seductive all at once, and leans down to kiss him. Robb keeps one hand on Jon’s hips and the other cups his jaw, angling the kiss until it fits just right. Jon sighs into his mouth, and Robb tastes the ale on him. Jon had always seemed definitively happier when a bit drunk.

“Come on,” Robb leans back and pats Jon’s hip. “Take me to bed, King Snow.”

Jon laughs and scrambles off his lap, tugging off his own clothes, Robb doing the same, and then dragging Robb to the large bed. Jon pushes him down on the bed and climbs atop him, smiling wickedly as he places open mouth kisses to Robb’s jaw, throat, collarbone, shoulder. He licks at Robb’s nipple, causing him to jerk his hips forward with a whine. Jon smirks at him before continuing his exploration down Robb’s stomach and abdomen, coming to the V of his hips and scraping his teeth across the sensitive skin there.

“ _Fuck_ , Jon,” Robb stutters out with a gasp, his hips bucking forward again. Jon moves his mouth around the hair leading to Robb’s groin, but ignores his throbbing cock. Instead, his mouth bites into the flesh of Robb’s thigh, sucking until Robb is sure there will be a bruise there. Robb watches him with heavy-lidded eyes while Jon moves his mouth to the place between Robb’s legs where hip meets sensitive skin and bites down.

Robb jerks, hissing out air between his teeth and one of his hands comes down to tangle in Jon’s curls while the other grabs ahold of the headboard behind him. When Jon’s mouth finally takes in his stiff cock, Robb lets out a cry of relief, so hard it hurt.

Robb has seen thousands of men and women in his lifetime, and he’s sure he could meet a million more; he’d never find anyone with a mouth quite like Jon Snow.

Jon swirls his tongue around the head of Robb’s cock before skimming his lips up the sides of his member, teasing the aching flesh. Watching Jon’s lips wrap around his cock is almost as good as feeling it, seeing the way plump, pink lips can caress and scrape at the same time, causing pressure to build to a certain amount before soothing it.

After a few minutes of simply teasing Robb, Robb yanks at Jon’s hair, pulling him back up to kiss him harshly. Jon moans into his mouth, his own cock rubbing its leaking head across Robb’s stomach and causing him to shudder with want.

“Enough teasing, Snow.” Robb breathes, kissing down Jon’s jaw until Jon bares his throat to Robb, allowing Robb to suck a bruise into the pale skin low enough for a shirt collar to hide. Jon whimpers, his hips brushing across Robb’s stomach with desire.

“What is it you want, Stark?” Jon breathes, dizzy with want for Robb. Robb grins and pushes Jon onto his back, moving to slip a thigh between Jon’s legs. He grinds their cocks together, the friction making Jon arch into the touch.

“Do you have any idea how you look right now?” Robb asks breathlessly, his hips moving desperately with Jon’s. “So gorgeous, always. _Gods_ , Jon,” Robb groans, coming hotly against their stomachs, Jon following right after. Jon breathes heavily as Robb untangles their legs, reaching for a discarded piece of clothing to wipe away the slick between them.

“It means nothing, you know?” Jon says quietly. Robb pauses from where he’s about to drop the shirt he’d used to clean them onto the floor. He lets it fall and turns to frown at Jon.

“What means nothing?”

“The title, King in the North. At the end of the day, I’m just Jon Snow. What in the Seven Hells do I know about leading an army?”

Robb wraps and arm around his waist, pulling Jon so he’s lying half on top of him, his face tucked into his throat.

“I don’t know, they all seem to think you’re doing a pretty good job.”

“Because we won,” Jon murmurs. “What if I lose next time?”

“You learn from it,” Robb tells him truthfully. “You see what you could have done better and you carry on.” He kisses the top of Jon’s head, feeling his brother drifting into sleep.

When he’s sure Jon is completely out, he looks to the flames once more and thinks, _You pray that next time you win._

∞

Robb is awakened by a loud creak and then a bang. He jolts upright in bed and sees Jon looking sheepishly at him, the wooden cross having fallen onto the stone floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, moving to pick the cross back up. He starts dragging it towards the fire, obviously struggling with its weight. Robb rolls his eyes and slides out of bed. He pulls on a pair of cast-off trousers and moves to pick up the opposite end, receiving a grateful look from his brother.

They get it next to the fireplace and Jon moves around the room, opening a closet-type object and removing what looks like an axe and kicking the closet door closed as he walks back. Robb opens his mouth to ask but doesn’t get a word out before Jon swings the axe, breaking the cross cleanly into four pieces with one blow. They both stare at the pieces and then at each other.

“I feel I shouldn’t be as aroused as I am.” Robb admits. The way Jon laughs and lights up like he rarely ever did before is well worth it.

(So is the fuck against the wall that immediately follows.)

∞

“Robb, I need to speak with you.” Sansa says quietly, a hand on his arm to stop him walking away. He’d been wandering the hallways of Winterfell, reacquainting himself with the old as well as the Bolton-new. He isn’t sure how long he can stand to be hidden away before he breaks.

“Okay,” Robb nods, allowing her to pull him into a quiet corridor. “What is this about?”

“I just…it was something brought up to me that I don’t know who to speak to about.” She bites her lip nervously and Robb frowns.

“Sansa, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“I just – you can’t tell Jon.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to say this.” Sansa sighs tiredly, beginning to pace in front of him. “With everything that’s happened these past few years; you dead, the Lannisters, the Boltons, all of the battles and deaths…and through it all Jon has somehow managed to take Winterfell and is going to war with not only the other houses, but with the dead and…”

“Sansa, slow down,” Robb places his hands on her shoulders to try and soothe her rambling words. Sansa takes a deep breath and looks at him seriously.

“I’m worried that mother was right.”

“Right about what?” Robb asks with a frown.

“Jon. He’s…he’s taken each of your titles, one by one, and now he’s King in the North and what if it’s what he wanted from the beginning? What if Jon had wanted all of this, was just waiting-“

“Jon isn’t like that, Sansa,” Robb stops her harshly.

“I want to believe that, Robb, I really do, but if mother was still alive, Jon would never have _dared_ to do some of the things he has done. The other houses would never have bowed to him. And…”

“Sansa?”

“I’m a trueborn Stark, Robb. And Jon is King.”

Robb stares at her for a moment. He wants to berate her for even considering what she’s saying to be true, and yet years of Catelyn Stark’s warnings about Jon Snow and her predictions that he wanted Robb’s title all along ring in his head.

“Sansa, it isn’t true.” Robb says finally. “Jon is just doing what needs to be done. We need to trust him.”

She searches her brother’s face for a moment and then nods hesitantly.

“I trust you, Robb.” She says. “And if you are certain he’s doing the right thing – that _we_ are doing the right thing – then I trust you.”

“Good,” Robb pulls her into a hug of reassurance, wishing he believed his own words. For the first time, Robb hesitantly considers the possibility that Jon Snow might not be blameless.

∞

Jon is sitting in their father’s old study, papers and maps scattered across the wooden surface of the old desk. He looks overwhelmed and smiles when Robb enters.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to be King in the North?” He asks. Robb smiles at him and sits across from him.

“I don’t think that was part of the deal, remember?” Robb counters. Jon sighs and nods, looking back down at the papers on the desk.

“They want to plan an attack and take back some of the ground the Boltons lost to the Lannisters.” Jon says. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a significant enough army to even consider that for a while.”

“Not even with the other Northern Houses?” Robb frowns. Jon shakes his head.

“In the three years since the Red Wedding, the North has been losing more and more people. Young male children seemed to be some of the biggest targets. It was a good strategy, I admit.”

“Jon,” Robb begins before stopping. Jon looks at him questioningly. “I really don’t mean this in any way…negatively. But you’ve never been trained to do things like this, have you?”

“No, we had weekly classes for the Bastard of Winterfell.” Jon says, looking down at the papers once again. “Learned how to keep track of the coin, ale, and knights. Everyone was very invested in preparing me for life as King of the North.”

Through it all, he had no inflection in his voice and it shocks Robb for a moment.

“Did you…just make a joke?” Robb asks, a grin slowly creeping up on his face. Jon smirks at him.

“I have been known to joke occasionally.”

“I think I’d remember,” Robb comments.

“They always prepared me for the moment the Bastard of Winterfell became King in the North. It was naturally always expected of me.”

Despite his lighthearted tone, Robb can’t help thinking of Sansa’s questions in the hallway. He shoves his doubts to the side and sits forward in his seat.

“All right, _Your Grace_.” Robb says casually. “How about the first Bastard of Winterfell classes begin today.” He grabs the top piece of parchment and holds it up for Jon to see.

“Lesson one: _This_ is a _map_.”

Luckily, years of his _own_ training had taught Robb to dodge the piece of crumpled paper Jon aimed for his head.

 


	3. Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I hate notes as much as the next person, but there are some disclaimers I really want to mention:  
> First, I have definitely watched the season 7 trailer and while it looks spectacular, I am excited to take a different route.  
> Second, yes there are scenes placed in different orders, and yes Melisandre was sent away earlier than in the show. Whatever, she's a bitch, we're all glad she's gone  
> Third, PLOT! I FINALLY HAVE ONE! Which means that now I have an official outline for this story to work from which should excite you all because I almost _never_ have an outline.  
>  Fourth, thank you for all of your kind remarks, please feel free to tell me about any mistakes I make as this story has no beta and therefore has to rely on my rather lacking proofreading skills.

 

He’s sitting on the Iron Throne.

He’s laughing, but not the happy kind. He’s angry and shaking and laughing because if he doesn’t laugh he might scream and scream until he cannot scream anymore.

_BURN THEM ALL!_

Jon bolts upright in bed and gasps in the frozen air. Robb is still sleeping, his red hair ruffled and his ribs rising and falling steadily. Jon takes another deep breath and throws back the furs covering him. He slides out of bed and pulls on a pair of pants before he walks over to the dying fire. Ghost lifts his head and looks at him carefully. After a moment, Jon slides down to sit cross-legged with the wolf on the hearth. He pets Ghost’s white fur as he thinks about the dream he’d had. He’s sure it was _the_ Iron Throne he had been sitting on, but it hadn’t felt like his own body. He’d felt…old? Tired? _Crazy_?

 _The Mad King_ , he thinks.

Jon shakes his head to try and clear it, hearing Robb sniffle in his sleep and shift under the furs. Jon looks over at him and sighs. After a few more minutes of sitting there idly stroking the direwolf, Jon lays another log on the fire before standing and going back to the bed. He climbs back underneath the furs and immediately Robb turns and cuddles into his side. Jon smiles to himself, allowing his body to relax into Robb’s radiating heat.

He dreams.

_He’s standing in a dark pit, men and women all around him illuminated by candles. He’s angry, furious, and he rips his sword from his belt. When he looks at the blade, it isn’t Long Claw in his hand, but another man’s sword. His hand is spidery thin and pale white._

_“Keep away from me!” He screams, but it isn’t his voice._

_“Viserys, please!”_

_Jon turns to see Daenerys Targaryen, small and pale and young, staring at him helplessly. Viserys, he thinks, why did she call me that?_

_“There she is,” he says to her. He moves his sword so it is pointed at_ her _. Jon can’t understand why his body is doing this; he doesn’t want to kill a young girl!_

_“Put the sword down,” a man behind him says. “They’ll kill us all!”_

_“They_ can’t _kill us all!” Jon replies happily, continuing to walk towards Daenerys. He points his sword at a rather large man, tattooed, with dark hair braided down past his waist and a dark look in his eye. Jon would never fight a man like this – why is he trying to?_

_“They can’t shed blood in their sacred city,” he continues cheerfully. A handmaid attempts to stand in front of Daenerys but Jon waves her away with the tip of his sword. “But I can.” Jon touches his sword to Daenerys’ belly until she sits. He feels the anger in his veins but cannot explain where the emotion is coming from._

_“I want what I came for.” Jon tells Daenerys. “I want the crown he promised me. He bought you, but he never paid for you.” A girl in the corner translates Jon’s words into another language for the large, dark man to understand. The man’s eyes never leave Jon._

_“Tell him I want what was bargained for, or I’m taking you back. He can keep the baby; I’ll cut it out and leave it for him.”_

_The man speaks, voice deep and angry._

_“What’s he saying?”_

_“He says yes. You shall have a golden crown that men shall tremble to behold.” Daenerys tells him calmly._

_“Well that was all I wanted.” Jon says. “What was_ promised _.”_

 _You idiot, Jon thinks to himself, you_ idiot _, she is lying to you! But Jon’s body doesn’t obey; he smiles and allows the small girl to stand next to the giant man. The man puts his hand over Daenerys’ stomach, feeling the baby Jon had just threatened._

_Without warning, someone runs up behind him and snaps his arm. Jon screams, the pain ripping through his body._

_“No! No, you cannot touch me! I am a dragon, I am a dragon, I want my crown!” He keeps screaming to anyone who will listen and the dark man says something, walking towards the fire. He drops a bunch of gold dragon coins into the pot there and Jon suddenly understands what is happening._

_“No, Dany, tell them! Make them! No, you can’t!” He screams. “Dany please!”_

_The dark-haired man stares at him, pot raised high. “A crown for a king.” He says, dropping the molten gold down on top of Jon’s head. The pain is devastating and Jon_ screams _, the sound echoing throughout the silent room as the gold melts into his skull and he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t-_

“JON!”

Jon jolts in his sleep and Robb’s hand on his chest holds him in place, his worried face staring down at him with the soft morning light coming through the windows into the chambers. Jon takes several deep breaths and Robb runs a hand through his red locks unsteadily.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jon nods shakily. “Yeah, just a bad dream.”

“Must have been some dream.” Robb chuckles weakly. Jon nods again, still gulping air into his lungs.

They dress silently, both still shaken by the rude awakening; Jon can’t stop thinking of the intense horror and pain of the molten gold crowning his brow. He shudders, tugging a shirt over his torso.

Robb goes to their father’s study to look over papers and maps and Jon goes to the dining hall to get them both breakfast. Robb is seated behind the desk, tracing out a potential pathway through one of the near villages when the door opens. Thinking it is Jon, he doesn’t immediately look up, until no other sound is heard. He glances up and is stunned to see the thin figure of Petyr Baelish standing in the doorway.

“Robb Stark,” Baelish breathes, for once a smile not plastered across his lips. They’re both too stunned by the presence of one another that for a long while neither speaks. Finally, Baelish seems to compose himself somewhat.

“How are you alive, my Lord?”

“I-“ Robb falters, unsure how to begin to explain, unsure whether he _should_ explain to someone as slippery as Petyr Baelish. The man steps inside the room fully and closes the study door.

“My Lord, I honestly cannot believe you are sitting here before me!”

“It is pretty fantastical to believe.” Robb tells him. “I was brought back by the gods. To help win the war.”

“To help win the war,” Petyr repeats, staring at him intently. “And the gods told you this?”

“Ah,” Robb frowns. “In a way, yes.” He remains unclear how to handle the situation. “For the time being, Lord Baelish, I would appreciate it if you could keep this quiet.”

“Of _course_ , Lord Stark.” He nods enthusiastically, his smirk finally sliding into its usual place. Robb is unnerved by it, but also comforted because _this_ is a man he knows how to deal with: give him nothing.

“My gratitude,” Robb nods to him. “Was there something you needed?”

“I was looking for his Grace…I mean, your bastard brother.” Robb internally grimaces at the reminder of Jon’s status; not only of its potential falseness, but also of its intended slander. Robb has no idea how he’s to feel about anything anymore, if he’s honest.

“Jon went to get us food to break fast.” Robb tells him.

“Of course,” Baelish nods slowly. “Well, I shan’t intrude any longer. Please tell your brother that I was looking for him.”

“Of course,” Robb repeats, nodding formally to the man. Baelish stands and silently exits the study, leaving Robb behind, quite stunned by the experience. When Jon does return, Robb tells him one of the men wandering around said Lord Baelish was looking for him instead of telling his brother about the strange encounter or the fact that Littlefinger knew Robb was alive.

He tries not to think what keeping that secret means.

∞

Sansa walks through the quickly gathering snow. She thinks of how it had been as a girl, with Lady following in her footsteps, before she had been stupid enough to fall in love with fairytales of princes and knights. She thinks of Loras Tyrell and Oberyn Martell: false faces placed on false hopes.

She sees some of the Wildling men repairing the door that the giant had crushed during the battle. They hammer at the wooden paneling and for some reason, Sansa feels close to tears. She looks up at the ledge where Theon had pushed Myranda, where Theon had kept his promise to keep her safe. She can still remember the horrible crunch of Myranda’s head smashing into the hard ground below, where a group of remaining Night’s Watchmen are now gathered laughing and talking together in merriment.

She wonders of the things they’ve seen; how would they stack up against her own experiences? Humiliation, fear, _rape_. She can’t even begin to explain how incredibly damaged she feels, how undesirable she imagines herself to be.

Every piece of her feels abused and scattered.

“Lady Sansa, are you all right?”

Two hands grasp her shoulders worriedly from behind and Sansa realizes she hasn’t been breathing, has been suffocating in her own righteous hatred for everything around her that she’s forgotten what air tastes like. She gasps, folding in on herself and Lord Davos catches her in his arms, repeatedly asking if she’s all right.

She will never be all right again, she feels.

“Sansa!” This time it is Jon’s voice who comes running to her, clutching futilely at Lord Davos’ arms which hold her up steadily.

“I’m okay,” She whispers, more to herself than anyone else. Jon and Davos exchange looks over her head, but she’s too lightheaded to think about that now.

“Come on,” Jon gently takes her arm and begins leading her to the fortress that holds so many dear memories, and so many horrific ones. “You should rest, you look like a stiff breeze will take you away.” Jon tells her quietly.

“I just need a moment,” Sansa tells him. Jon nods, helping her sit down on a stone bench inside Winterfell, near a blazing fire.

“Okay,” Jon says, sitting next to her and holding onto her hand. They do not speak for such a long time until after a while Sansa is sure that Jon isn’t even there anymore. But when she moves her hand from her lap, it is still clutching desperately to her bastard brother’s hand.

“Okay?” Jon asks her. Sansa nods, releasing his hand from her grip and straightening her spine.

“Thank you.” She says, standing and striding off down the hallway. She can feel Jon’s stare on her back, but she refuses to turn around and show him how truly broken she is.

∞

“The men are searching all the nearby villages for volunteers, but we can’t expect many to consider joining our forces.” Tormund explains. “After all, of those who believe us about the wights, no one wants to fight them.”

Jon nods wearily, his hair tied back away from his face and his spine stiff. Robb thinks he looks the part of a king, regal and tired, just like so many before him.

“We need to consider other alternatives,” Sansa says quietly, speaking up for the first time in the midst of the small meeting. Of those gathered together, she and Lyanna Mormont are the only women. Along with them are Tormund, Davos, and Robb, with Sansa and Jon being the only to know who Robb truly is. Davos and Tormund have never asked, though they sometimes shoot both he and Jon curious looks.

“What sorts of alternatives do you suggest?” Davos asks.

“We’re going to need to search out more houses.” Sansa says. “It should be easier now that Jon is King in the North, not just a bastard of the Night’s Watch. They’ll be more apt to listen to you, especially since Ramsay’s death.”

“Maybe,” Jon considers it. “But that would take up a lot of time going back to all of the houses who refused us before.”

“Send Manderly and Glover and all the rest of them,” Robb recommends. “They’ve pledged themselves to your cause, now they can help you amass a decent army.”

“I’m sure they’ll love being considered messenger boys,” Tormund grumbles. Jon tilts his head in acknowledgment.

“Who cares?” Robb laughs. “They didn’t want to fight against Ramsay, and yet Winterfell is back under Stark rule. They owe it to you.”

“All right,” Jon sighs and pushes back from the desk in the study. “I appreciate your suggestions and I’ll think it over.”

“I’m willing to send some of my own men,” Lyanna says calmly, her silvery gaze locking on Jon’s. He’d almost forgotten she was there, being so small. He figures she has learned that being considered meek will be to her advantage.

“I thank you, my Lady.” Jon nods to her and she nods back, standing and following Tormund from the room.

“We’ll need to make a decision soon.” Davos tells Jon seriously. “The wights are coming fast, and we need to be ready.”

“Thank you, Davos.” Jon tells the older man tiredly. “Get some rest, you’ve been pacing the halls since dawn; I’d like to know you aren’t going to fall and break a hip.”

“One of these days, Snow,” Davos shakes his head at Jon with a mock-threatening voice. Jon smiles at him as the man bows to Sansa and Robb before he too departs. The three siblings remain in the quiet of the study for a moment.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asks Sansa.

“Better, thank you.” Sansa nods. “It’s just…the last time I was here was less than enjoyable.”

“I cannot even begin to imagine,” Jon tells her. Sansa sighs and moves around the desk to wrap Jon in a tight hug which he returns. She then kisses Robb on the cheek before she exits the study.

“Sansa, wait,” Robb says, moving to her side before she can quite make it out. “I’ll walk you.”

She takes his arm and they begin striding down the silent hallways of Winterfell to her chambers.

“Littlefinger knows,” Robb tells her. Her eyes widen in shock.

“How?”

“He came into the study this morning while Jon was breaking fast. I made him promise to stay quiet, but we both know how Petyr Baelish loves his secrets.”

“This could be a disaster.” Sansa sighs. “Does Jon know?”

“I didn’t tell him.” Robb replies with a shake of his head.

“Why not?” Sansa frowns at him, stopping in the middle of the hallway to look at her brother. Robb scrubs tiredly at his face.

“I can’t help but wonder about what’s going on in his head. He’s always been quiet, but usually I could guess what was happening. Three years of death and three years before that fighting two separate wars; I don’t know how to read him anymore.”

“I thought you trusted Jon. Robb, do I need to be worried?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him. And worry about Jon or about Littlefinger?”

“Either? Both? Robb, I’m tired of playing this game.”

“I know, sister.” Robb sighs and they continue their walking. “It’s hard to know who you can trust when you play these games.”

“Jon Snow has always been a mystery to me.” Sansa tells him. “I know I was a naïve girl for a long time, but I’d like to think I can judge now someone’s character, and I worry about Jon’s intentions in becoming a Stark. If it’s even something Father would have _wanted_.”

“Our father loved Jon just like the rest of us.” Robb tells her sternly.

“He did, and he didn’t.” Sansa says slowly. “Jon was raised like a son in swordplay and in most of his studies, but when you came of age, it changed. Father stopped allowing him lessons with you, started making you go alone on rides and only advanced you in your swordplay for a long time. It would be easy to say that it was our mother who demanded it be this way, but Father often left her word unheeded where it concerned our bastard brother. Father was worried, too, that Jon might be a danger to the Starks if he knew as much as you.”

Robb considers this as they approach Sansa’s chamber door. Sansa turns to look at him, making out his facial expression with the moonlight from the window in the hallway. Outside, voices float up to them in murmurs, but tucked away in the hallway it is just them.

“I love Jon, Sansa.”

“I don’t doubt that you do, brother.” Sansa smiles softly at him, but it looks all too sad. “But do you love the man he’s become, or the Jon Snow you knew?”

Robb can’t answer, and so Sansa kisses him once again on the cheek and then disappears into her chambers. Robb takes a shaky breath and looks out the window at the full moon beyond Winterfell’s walls. He wants to believe he’s being ridiculous, but his eyes catch on the Wildling men patrolling the wall and he has to wonder.

∞

_He's being led by two guards into a jeering crowd. He feels sore and tired, but mostly resigned to his fate. His hands are tied behind his back and for a moment, he’s disoriented by the crowd before him. He blinks and sees Arya amongst the large crowd, and he feels fear for the first time._

_“Baelor!” He cries as he passes, and the man sees Arya, too. Sansa stands with Cersei and Joffrey while Petyr Baelish stands a step below them, watching with growing curiosity. Jon is forced to stand before the large crowd._

_“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King.” He looks up at the royal party and sees Sansa looking young and beautiful. She nods to him and Jon turns back to the crowd. “I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son and seize the throne for myself.”_

_Something is thrown at his head and he accepts it, knowing there’s nothing left to do. Jon continues._

_“Let the high Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one, true heir to the Iron Throne by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm.”_

_The jeering continues for a moment and the Maester steps forward. Words like ‘Traitor’ and ‘Betrayer’ are thrown at Jon, but he takes no notice._

_“As we have sinned, so do we suffer!” The Maester’s old voice croaks to the crowd. “This man has confessed his crimes in sight of gods and men. The gods are just! But, beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful.” He turns to Joffrey. “What is to be done with this traitor?”_

_The crowd picks up once more, screaming and taunting, and Jon feels weary as  he waits for the narcissistic king to make his decision one way or another._

_Joffrey raises a hand to the crowd. “My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night’s Watch; stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.” He pauses. “But they have the soft hearts of women! So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Sir Illyn, BRING ME HIS HEAD.”_

_The crowd erupts in both cheers and outrage, and Jon hears Sansa and Cersei speaking and begging Joffrey to reconsider, but it makes no difference. The boy king will not change his mind and Jon’s mind is made up; he is to die here, now, and he’s ready. He is shoved to his knees and he watches the hooded executioner pull out his sword. Jon’s heart beats in rapid succession as Sansa screams for it to stop. The crowd blurs and their words disappear into the silence wrought by the blood pumping through his ears._

_When the sword cuts down, it’s a blessing._

Jon’s eyes snap open and he stays very still, attempting to get his bearings once more. He’s in the lord’s chambers, Robb lying on his stomach to his right, his head turned away from Jon. Slowly, Jon leans up on his elbows and sees Ghost lift his head from the hearth. Once, it would have seemed strange that Ghost always seemed to expect Jon’s movements, but now it is a comfort. He is Jon Snow, he is at Winterfell, his head is still attached to his body.

On shaky feet Jon pulls on Robb’s shirt from the previous day and a pair of pants. He pulls on his boots and cloak and quietly exits the chambers, Ghost at his heels. Robb doesn’t so much as twitch from where he sleeps on the soft mattress.

In the hallway, Jon wanders idly past the stone walls. Morning light hasn’t even begun to arrive, leaving Jon to wonder how long it will be before anyone else is awake.

He steps outside into the casual snowfall that surrounds them, and he sees Davos standing on the wall above him, peering out past Winterfell’s walls. Jon nods for Ghost to run ahead and then slowly makes his way to the older man, up the stairs and across the landing of the wall.

“I thought I told you to rest.” Jon comments. Davos blinks over at him and smiles easily.

“I’m too old to take orders from the likes of you, boy, king or not.” The fond undertone takes any insult out of the reply, and Jon grins back at him. “But why are _you_ awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jon shrugs.

“Does it have something to do with the man you keep locked away inside?” Davos asks him curiously. Jon side eyes him, but Davos doesn’t seem accusatory, only inquisitive.

“No, he’s been asleep for a while,” Jon replies slowly. Davos nods deliberately and then turns to face him.

“Who is he?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Jon, I’ve seen White Walkers and I’ve heard the stories about the Targaryen girl’s dragons. I think I can handle one more unbelievable thing.” Jon laughs slightly and then sighs.

“It’s my brother, Robb.”

Davos considers this a moment and then asks, “The one they killed at the Red Wedding?”

“The very same.” Jon nods, looking out at the snowfall.

“And how exactly did he come to be by your side?”

“It appears I’m not the only one who came back to life,” Jon tells him seriously. Davos nods, accepting the answer, and then questions,

“He’s not just your brother, is he.” It isn’t a question, but a statement of fact. Jon stiffens, looking at the old man for any signs of disgust or contempt but finds neither, only a general understanding of the need for some comfort in the world they live.

“Yes,” Jon replies simply after a long moment of silence. Davos nods again.

“I guessed as much.” They’re silent again, and then Davos picks up a story he’d heard from one of the Wildling men and Jon relaxes into the easy conversation he finds hard to have with Robb these days. For the first time in a long time, Jon doesn’t feel like the other shoe is about to drop. He can still just be Jon Snow.

 

Robb sleepily reaches for Jon, but finds the left side of the bed conspicuously empty and cold. Lifting his head, he frowns at the missing body that should have been there. He turns to look towards the fire and sees that Ghost is gone as well.

Robb tugs the furs off himself and stands up, walking towards the fire to restock it. As he passes the window, he sees two figures standing on the wall. He distinctly hears the soft laugh belonging to Jon and sees that he is standing out on the wall with the older man, Davos.

Robb frowns, wondering what it was Jon had gone out to speak to the man about, and why he hadn’t woken Robb up. Looking out at the sky, it isn’t even close to morning, which meant Jon had barely slept a few hours before leaving the bed.

Another laugh overtakes the two men on the wall and then a third, tall figure approaches. Tormund, the Wildling man, joins the two and the conversation clearly continues as it had been.

This Jon isn’t one Robb recognizes, fraternizing with people so easily, laughing and telling stories. He wonders if this had always been Jon, able to speak and joke, or if six years on the wall had simply changed him.

It scares him that he doesn’t know.

∞

Petyr Baelish approaches the two red haired figures sitting by the fire slowly, not wanting to disturb if something important is being discussed. It doesn’t appear so, however, so he clears his throat softly and waits for both Starks to turn and look at him.

“Might I have a moment of your time?” He asks them both. Robb and Sansa nod, standing to follow Petyr to a secluded hallway, away from anyone who might hear or recognize Robb.

“I wanted to ask about plans regarding the Lannisters.”

“What about them?” Sansa asks.

“Well, your brother seems intent on finding an army to fight the White Walkers, but I fear that he is losing sight of the growing danger on the other side of the wall, the army moving from the south.”

“We can only do so much, Lord Baelish,” Sansa tells the man. Robb frowns at them both.

“And what would you have us do?” Robb asks.

“I do not wish to intrude on family business, but as the rightful heir to Winterfell, wouldn’t it be wise to give you back your position?” Petyr aims this to Robb. Sansa looks at her brother expectantly.

“Jon was named-“

“The others didn’t know that you were alive, my Lord. If they did, they most certainly would have given you back your rightful titles. Why did you allow your bastard brother to take it in the first place?”

“Because he had earned it.” Robb tells the man, growing angry with his disrespect towards Jon.

“And now he is making foolish decisions.” Baelish points out. “He may have taken back Winterfell, but now the fortress is running wild with Night’s Watchmen and Wildlings, and we have very little remaining trained fighting men. I understand he is focused on the wights he says are coming, but I fear he is blinded by his duty to the Night’s Watch and not towards the growing threats from the south.”

Robb and Sansa nod thoughtfully, both understanding what Baelish is saying.

“I will speak to him,” Robb says carefully.

“Perhaps you should announce your arrival to the parties already here, my Lord,” Baelish says. “They will restore you to your old title and your brother can go back to fighting with the Night’s Watch.”

“Wait, you want me to send Jon back to the Wall?” Robb asks incredulously.

“His mind seems to be there already.” Baelish shrugs. “He isn’t focused on the wars to our other sides, and I fear it will be the Starks downfall.”

“Because he isn’t a Stark.” Robb says flatly, frowning at the man. Sansa raises an eyebrow at him.

“Not the way you and Lady Sansa are, no.” Baelish shakes his head. “And it is useless to all of us to pretend he is.”

“Jon is a good fighter and a good leader-“ Sansa begins.

“Then take back your throne and appoint him head of the king’s guard.” Baelish tells Robb.

“Why do you want him gone?” Robb demands.

“Because it can only hurt your chances in the wars to come,” Petyr tells him truthfully. Robb glares at him and Sansa says softly,

“You mean it will hurt your chances of getting you the Iron Throne.” He turns to snap at her and Sansa raises a hand to silence him. “It’s true, isn’t it?” She demands. “All of these thoughts you’ve been putting in my head to make me believe that Robb and I deserved to be leaders of the North were because you knew Jon would never give you a position of power over the Lannisters.”

With dawning realization, Robb and Sansa both see now how easily they had been manipulated by the man’s words, how _easy_ it had been for Littlefinger to point the war in his direction instead of supporting Jon’s claim that the wights were more important.

“You must think me some pathetic child,” Sansa says angrily. “Always so willing to believe you want to protect me, but it’s never true. You only ever protect yourself.”

“Lady Sansa-“

“Leave us.” Robb states firmly. Baelish hesitates, then turns and strides off. Sansa is shaking with rage at how simply she’d accepted his treacherous words.

“He needs us on his side to win the throne for himself.” She tells her brother quietly. “And he used me to get it – _again_.” She feels close to tears. “I’m so sorry, Robb, I should never have said-“

“We both misjudged him and Jon.” Robb shakes his head. “Jon needs our support, and we’ve been awful at giving it to him.” He straightens up, nodding confidently to her. “That changes. We’re going to make sure Jon wins this, just like the voice of the gods in the woods told me. No more doubts, the gods have chosen Jon and we need to trust that.”

Sansa nods, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow and walking with him back down the hallway.

“Mother was always wrong about him,” She tells her brother. “She, too, had trusted Petyr Baelish and look at where it landed you both.” She sighs. “I should apologize to Jon.”

“He doesn’t know what we thought.” Robb tells her soothingly. “From now on, we trust his judgement. No more jealousy and no more bastard talk. He’s our king now, we will honor him as one. He’s worked hard to deserve it.”

∞

Jon looks at the gold iron crown in his hands, the direwolf head carved into it and the blades of swords pointing upwards and feels nothing but despair. Some of the men had fashioned it for him, but when he looks at it all he can think is _how many men had to die for such a small token of power?_ With a sudden fury, Jon throws the crown at the stone wall. It clashes loudly against the wall and the sound echoes throughout the bedchamber. Jon heaves in a shaky breath and clenches his fists.

A whistle from behind him shocks him into awareness and he turns to see Robb has entered the room without Jon noticing. He’s looking at the crown on the floor and then back at Jon.

“What’s got you all worked up?” Robb asks with a smile. Jon stares at him for a long time, enough for Robb to slowly lose his smile.

“What is it?” He asks.

“How long have you thought it?” Jon asks him quietly.

“Thought what?” Robb frowns deeply at him.

“How long have you and Sansa agreed with your mother?” Jon rephrases. Robb slows his walk from where he’d been moving towards Jon. He stops in the middle of the room.

“Jon-“

“How long have you thought that all I wanted was your title? Your birthright?” Jon demands angrily, feeling tears well in his eyes in fury. “Did you believe it all along? Pretend to love me so you could keep me close, make sure I didn’t try anything? Or was it just now, with Littlefinger telling you how much _you deserved_ to have your title back? The title I _offered you_!”

Robb tries to move towards him but Jon flinches away and moves towards the fire, his eyes dark with rage and anguish. Robb can’t think of anything to reply with; how does he even begin to explain how wrong he had been? How _stupid_ he had been?

Jon turns finally to look at him, and instead of a furious king glaring at him, Robb sees a small, motherless boy, just wanting someone to love him.

“Was that all it ever was for you?” He asks softly, sadly. “All those years ago, just another way for your mother to make sure I remained the bastard in the shadows? Make me fall in love with you so I’d never think about trying to _kill you_?” He’s heaving breath now, furious and hurt. “To make sure I didn’t ruin _your_ chance in the wars to come?” He throws back at Robb the words he’d heard Petyr Baelish use in the hallway.

“Jon-“

“Because it was real for me, Robb.” Jon yells, tears finally falling down his cheeks. “I _loved_ you, and all I ever wanted was for you to love me too. All I ever wanted was for you to look at me the way you did. I didn’t care that you were an heir or a lord or King in the North. I cared about _you_ , the boy who I loved more than anything. My _brother_.”

“It was real for me, too, Jon!”

“How can I believe you, when all I know for sure right now is that you and Sansa have distrusted me this whole time?” Jon asks helplessly. “How can I ever know what’s true and what’s not?”

“Because my heart knows it!” Robb shouts, marching forward and grabbing Jon’s hand, bringing it to his chest to feel his thumping heartbeat. “I _love_ you, Jon. It was always real. What you heard-“

“What I heard was the same thing your mother said for _years_.” Jon says quietly, not moving his hand from his brother’s chest. Robb wipes away his brother’s tears with his thumb, cupping his pale face gently.

“Petyr Baelish got in Sansa’s head, was telling her all these things-“

“Things that you started to believe.”

“I never-“

“You _did_ , Robb. You believed…you _believed_ …” He cuts off and steps back from Robb. “All I ever did was love you.”

“Jon, please, just listen-“

“If you want the crown, you can have it.” Jon tells him, pointing to the golden iron crown lying on the stone floor. “If you want the army and the men to bow before you, you can have it. Because I never wanted this. I never wanted our father to die, I never wanted Rickon to die. I never wanted _your mother_ to die, even though she couldn’t have cared less if I died. And I never, _ever_ wanted you to die. I would have happily stayed at the Wall for the rest of my life if it meant you could be king and happy-“

“I made a mistake, Jon.” Robb says brokenly. “I made a mistake, and I’m so sorry.”

“Even when Catelyn Stark is dead, she still has more power to sway you than I can believe.” Jon says sadly. He turns then, his face turned to the flames of the fire.

Robb runs a shaking hand through his hair roughly. He had never remotely prepared for the idea that he could betray Jon’s trust so deeply. He _loved_ Jon. The thought of hurting him physically pained him, and yet he’d done so in the way Jon had always feared the most.

“I love you, Jon.” Robb whispers. “I made a mistake. I listened to Petyr Baelish’s words to Sansa and I let my own fear and jealousy overtake me. It blinded me to the truth that’s always stared me in the face; I _know_ you would never betray me, would never hurt me or try to usurp me. I _know_ that, but I never thought anything like this could ever happen!”

Jon turns to look at him as he continues his rant.

“I mean, I never thought direwolves were _real_ , and suddenly there were six in the woods, waiting for us. I never believed I’d meet King Robert. I never thought you would _leave me_.” He looks at Jon pleadingly. “I had never prepared for father to leave with Sansa and Arya, or for Robert Baratheon to die, or for our _father_ to die! I never prepared for Sansa to be held captive or for Arya to run. I never prepared for Bran to never walk again or to become King in the North. I never prepared for Theon to betray our family, for you to have to fight in a war you wanted no part in, and I never prepared for the idea that death couldn’t keep us apart.

“But it’s all _happened_ , Jon, so can you _please_ understand that I never wanted to hurt you, that that is the last thing I ever wanted, and that everything in my head is so far outside of the normal that I can’t even possibly imagine what tomorrow might hold?”

Jon is staring at him openly now, not sure how to respond. Robb holds his gaze, silently begging him to forgive him so they might move past this.

“Promise me,” Jon says softly, his words almost inaudible. “Promise me that you trust me and that I can trust you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, his fists clenched, and a tear falls down his cheek. “Because I can’t do this without you, Robb, but I can’t do this _with_ you if I can’t trust you.”

“You _can_ trust me!” Robb grips Jon’s shoulders tightly until he opens his eyes. “I promise on the Stark name, on the soul of our father, you can trust me because _I trust you_. I’m so sorry I ever made you doubt that, Jon.”

Jon lets out a shaky breath and Robb hugs him tightly, feeling himself relax a little as his brother’s arms wrap easily around his waist, squeezing back just as roughly.

“Take me to bed, Robb.” Jon says quietly, and Robb leans back to smile gently at him.

“Of course, my _king_.”

“Just Jon,” Jon tells him quickly, intertwining their fingers. “For you, I’m always Jon.”

“Of course, Jon, always.” Robb breathes, kissing him until there are no words left.

He pulls his brother to the bed and lays him out after stripping them both of their clothes. He grabs for the oil on the bedside and coats his fingers with it, kissing Jon while he does so. He brings his lubricated fingers to his own hole, beginning to stretch himself. Robb hits a particularly sensitive part and groans, breaking off the kiss and arching forward on Jon’s lap. Jon runs his hands up Robb’s chest, eyes dark with want, and Robb bites his lip as he fingers himself open.

“ _Gods_ ,” Jon breathes, his eyes watching as Robb stretches his neck a little. After a moment of hesitation, Jon leans up and bites at his throat, causing Robb to moan loudly. His fingers slip out of his hole and he wraps both hands around Jon’s neck to kiss him harder.

He breaks off with a groan and coats his fingers again, this time using it to slide his hand over Jon’s stiff cock, causing his brother to buck up under him and make a keening sound. He makes sure Jon is coated with the oil before moving over him, positioning his brother’s cock at his entrance, and slowly slipping down on it. Jon groans as Robb gets him fully inside him, allowing them both a minute of harsh breathing before he begins slowly rocking his hips.

He leans down and catches Jon’s swollen mouth in a moan, feeling the vibration in his own mouth as Jon greedily kisses him back. Robb starts moving a little faster, wanting to feel every inch of Jon inside him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, sitting back up and arching his back as he rocks on Jon’s cock. Jon’s eyes are black with desire and his hand begins working Robb’s cock, leaking between them. Robb moans, his hips stuttering momentarily.

Suddenly, Jon growls and flips them over, putting Robb underneath his brother’s broad frame, much more defined than it had been before he left for the Wall. He drives into Robb with such force that it pushes Robb into the bedframe, ramming it into the stone wall behind it. Robb moans, clutching onto his brother and knowing his fingernails will leave marks on his brother’s back. Jon continues to move in and out of him, breathing into the junction where shoulder meets neck hotly. Robb knows Jon is getting close when his hips speed up frantically. He grabs Jon’s face and kisses him wetly as he feels Jon come inside him. Untouched, Robb follows as Jon hits that spot of nerves inside him, feeling his desire and arousal from his toes to his head. He moans Jon’s name as his brother rocks shallowly into him before they both still, breathing hard into one another.

Jon carefully slides out, rolling onto his back beside Robb. Robb turns his head to look at Jon. His face is flushed, his dark hair falling everywhere. His eyes are closed, his long eyelashes fanning out across his cheekbones. Robb leans over him, smiles softly when Jon’s eyes flutter open, and kisses him slowly.

“I love you.” He says, his lips brushing his brother’s. “I believe in you, Jon.”

“I love you.” Jon replies, pulling Robb down so they’re lying on their sides facing each other.

“I trust you, and you can trust me. I was a fool, and I beg you to forgive me.”

“I can’t lose you, Robb.” Jon whispers. Robb leans up and kisses his brother’s temple.

“We should wash up.” Robb says, breaking off into a yawn. Jon laughs tiredly and pulls Robb close.

“We’ll wash tomorrow. For now, let’s sleep.”

Robb rests his head on Jon’s chest, placing a gentle kiss to the muscle beneath his head. Jon squeezes his shoulders, pink lips pressing on red curls. They fall asleep like that, tangled together and blissful.

∞

 “Jon.”

Jon turns and sees Sansa walking towards him slowly, her hair cascading in fiery glory around her shoulders. He can tell she’s nervous to come speak to him; he doesn’t blame her – not for her nervousness, at least.

“Sansa,” Jon remarks, nodding to her and looking back out at the wide expanse of snow past Winterfell’s walls.

“It’s cold out here.” She says. “You should go inside; dinner will be ready soon, Cook says.”

“I’m having the lord’s chambers prepared for you.” Jon replies. Sansa sighs.

“You should keep it.”

“I’m not a Stark.”

Jon looks at Sansa and she looks back. Finally, the gauntlet has been thrown. No taking it back, once and for all.

“You are to me.” She says quietly, stepping towards him with an earnest expression. Jon looks back out at the wilderness.

“You’re the Lady of Winterfell.” Jon tells her. “You deserve it. We’re standing here because of you. The battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale road in. They came because of _you_.”

He says it partially because it’s true and partially because he knows it’s what she wants to hear. When he chances a look at her, she seems unhappy with his answer.

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon shakes his head at her – he doesn’t need pretty words, he never has. “You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons.”

Sansa’s spine stiffens, her posture straightening.

“He did.”

“And you trust him?”

He looks at her narrowly, gauging her reaction. Sansa turns her head to him and looks at him straight on. _Here it is_.

“Only a _fool_ would trust Littlefinger.” She replies. “And I was a fool, Jon.” She blinks back tears and says, “I should have told you about him, about the Knights of the Vale. I’m sorry.”

Jon moves towards her slowly, making sure they are facing one another when he says, “We need to trust each other. We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves, we have so many enemies now. Tell me now if you want me to step down, Sansa, and I will. I will hand it all over to you.”

“No,” she shakes her head quickly. “Robb and I trust you, Jon, and we want you to lead us. To be this Prince Who Was Promised. We believe in you.” He gently grips the back of her head and places a kiss on her forehead. He hears her take a shuddery breath and releases her. When he pulls back, they lock gazes once more, but Sansa doesn’t say anything. Leaving her to her thoughts, he turns to depart only for Sansa to finally finds her words.

“Jon,”

He turns back to her.

“A raven came from the citadel.” She pauses. “A _white_ raven. Winter is here.”

Jon stares at her a moment, feeling the snow falling onto his head and face, seeing it blowing in the wind that rustles her red hair. Slowly, he grins at her and looks up at the sky. All he can see is _whiteness_. He looks back at her.

“Well, father always promised, didn’t he?”

Sansa smiles softly back at him. He bows his head and departs.

 


	4. Significant Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important Notes!**  
>  Not so much necessary info for this chapter, but for those to come: No one in the north knows yet that Balon Greyjoy is dead and that Euron Greyjoy has taken the Salt Throne. Also, while Theon and Asha/Yara have pledged allegiance to Dany, the armada hasn't yet set sail for war. They're still pulling everything together because obviously that final armada takes longer than a few days to get in line.
> 
> Also, please tell me if you catch any glaring mistakes that I may have missed or if I'm remembering something wrong. It's all very appreciated!

 

_He’s seated behind a desk, decked in golden armor with the branches of House Baratheon. By now, Jon knows it cannot truly be him sitting here, looking at Catelyn Stark’s pleading face. After all, Lady Stark never pleaded with Jon for anything._

_“Swear it?” Jon asks, watching the red-haired woman swallow nervously._

_“By the Mother, my son has no interest in the Iron Throne,” Catelyn tells him earnestly. Jon picks up a goblet of wine off the desk in front of him and drinks, never taking his eyes off the woman. He wants to believe her so badly, and yet, in the game of thrones, you truly cannot trust anyone._

_“Then I see no reason for hostility between us. Your son can go on calling himself King in the North; the Starks will have dominion over all lands north of Moat Caitlin, providing he swears me an oath of fealty.”_

_“And the wording of this oath?” Catelyn demands swiftly. Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes._

_“The same Ned Stark swore to Robert eighteen years ago.” Catelyn looks away at the mention of her husband and Jon softens somewhat. “Cat, their friendship held the kingdoms together.”_

_“And in return for my son’s loyalty?”_

_“In the morning, I’ll destroy my brother’s army.” Jon stands cheerfully. “When that’s done, Baratheon and Stark will fight their common enemy together, as they have done many times before.” He steps before the mirror and sees it is not his own face looking back. It is a face he has never seen before, but somehow, he knows it is Renly Baratheon’s face staring back at him. Brienne of Tarth is also there, and she moves behind him to begin loosening his cloak. Catelyn Stark stands, her face appearing over his shoulder._

_“Our two houses have always been close, which is why I am begging you to reconsider this battle. Negotiate a peace with your brother-“_

_“Negotiate with_ Stannis _?” Jon laughs, cutting off her plea. “You heard him out there: I’ll have better luck debating the wind.” Brienne removes the plating on his chest and shoulders and Jon-as-Renly turns to look at Catelyn. “Please bring my terms to your son. I believe we are natural allies, I hope he feels the same. Together, we can end this war in a fortnight!”_

_Jon turns back to the mirror as a steady wind picks up outside. He looks down at his fine clothing and hears Brienne gasp beside him. Without warning, there is a piercing pain in his chest and when he looks up, the dark and ghastly face staring back vaguely resembles his brother, Stannis. The sword, though appearing to be nothing more than shadow and air, brings real blood from the wound. Jon struggles in agony and the knife as well as the ghostly figure vanishes. Jon falls to the ground and-_

He blinks awake to Ghost’s red eyes peering at him. Jon frowns at him and Ghost seems to mimic the motion.

“What?” Jon demands groggily, and Robb mumbles from his side.

“Huh?” He asks. Jon continues staring at Ghost.

“What do you _want_?” Jon asks the wolf, but before Ghost can do anything, there is a rapid pounding on the chamber door. Jon’s frown deepens as he pushes himself out of bed and stumbles to the door in just his small cloth.

“Yes?” Jon opens the door and is surprised to find Sansa looking flushed and harried.

“We just received a raven from the South.” She says, pushing past Jon and into the chamber. Robb sits up in bed unhappily, pillow creases indented into his face. Jon smiles fondly at him and Sansa rolls her eyes.

“What does it say?” Jon asks, nodding to the scroll in her hand.

“The Sept of the Seven in King’s Landing was exposed to wildfire, and has been burning for several days.” Sansa says. “Inside were about a hundred people, including Queen Margaery Tyrell, her brother Loras, her father Mace, and many others for the trial of Loras Tyrell and Cersei Lannister.”

Jon stares at her in shock before managing to ask, “Cersei?”

“She never went.” Sansa looks at her brother seriously. “Shortly after, King Tommen Baratheon who was supposed to be at the Sept with his bride jumped from a window and killed himself.”

Jon’s mouth hangs open as he tries to process this information. Sansa sighs tiredly and then adds, “And if all of that wasn’t devastating enough? Cersei Lannister has been named Queen of Westeros.”

“Are you _fucking_ joking?” Robb sputters from the bed. Sansa shakes her head.

“I wish I were.” She hands the scroll to Jon, who clutches it tightly, reading the lines on the page.

“She can’t do this,” Jon murmurs.

“She _can_ , and she did.” Sansa says angrily. “She’s queen now, despite everything. All three children dead, known to have committed adultery and incest, and she _still_ is queen of all of Westeros.”

“What about Joffrey? What happened to him? And the daughter, Myra? Marella?” Robb asks.

“Myrcella,” Sansa sighs. “She was killed by Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell’s paramour, we believe because she was upset over Oberyn’s death while defending Tyrion Lannister.”

“He…what?” Robb stares at her in confusion and Sansa shakes her head.

“She’s dead, and Joffrey was poisoned at his own wedding.”

“His wedding to _who_?” Robb demands.

“Margaery Tyrell,” Jon says absently, still looking at the letter.

“Who then married his brother Tommen?”

“Yes,” Sansa nods her confirmation.

“The fires are still burning?” Jon asks.

“Wildfire burns for a long time, which is why not many people have the power to get their hands on it. Cersei Lannister could most definitely have gotten it into her possession.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Jon scrubs at his face tiredly. The dreams he continues to have are having a considerable effect on what little sleep he had been able to get. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so exhausted before, not even when fighting the White Walkers farther north.

“So far, only Lord Davos knows about the raven, but you’ll want to let the others know.” Sansa says.

“Right,” Jon nods. Appeased, Sansa leaves the chambers and Jon huffs out a breath, collapsing back onto the bed beside his brother.

“Another dream?” Robb asks, his fingers gliding over the plains of muscle on his back lovingly. Jon nods into the pillow beneath his head, face smashed against it unattractively. Robb laughs quietly and then moves away, climbing out of bed and dressing.

“I had a thought,” Robb comments airily, pulling on a pair of pants. Jon makes a sound from the bed, telling Robb he’s listening. “We should look into finding Bran and Arya.”

Jon pushes his elbow down and lays his head in the palm of his hand, his eyes tracking his brother’s movements. “And where would you propose we start?”

“I don’t know,” Robb shrugs. “But they haven’t just disappeared – Sansa said that the one woman had said she’d seen Arya recently. And Bran can’t _walk_ , where the hell did _he_ go?”

“The man who brought Rickon to Ramsay, he had a woman with him.” Jon says slowly. “Osha, her name was, a woman who had betrayed Theon by taking Rickon and Bran and fleeing. Somehow, Bran went off on his own and we had been hoping to get more information from Rickon.”

“And Ramsay killed him.” Robb says, lacing up his boots, tugging tighter than necessary in anger.

“Right, and as for Arya, we don't know where she went after Brianne killed the Hound.”

Robb sighs. "They have to be somewhere. We have to find them, Jon.”

∞

“The men are getting restless,” Tormund announces flatly upon his arrival to the empty hall. Robb and Jon look up and Davos rolls his eyes.

“And what would you like me to do?” Jon asks. “Ask the Night King to hurry it up?”

“I’d like to do something more than sit with our thumbs up our arses,” Tormund grumbles. Jon laughs, startled.

“I understand you’re generally used to pillaging and moving on, but real battles aren’t planned or won in minutes.” Jon informs him. Tormund simply gives him an unimpressed look.

“One o’ these days, one o’ my men is going to smack you in the face, and I’m not going to do a damn thing about it.” The taller man says.

“All right, enough,” Davos interrupts before Jon can respond. Robb coughs slightly, covering up a chuckle. Jon glares at him. “Do we have an actual plan yet?”

“We need more men.” Jon sighs, tugging on a lock of his hair that had fallen out of the band. “I’ve sent Lord Glover west, but as of right now I can’t see where we’re going to get any loyal hands to help out.”

“What are the Iron Islanders doing?” Robb asks hesitantly.

“Who knows,” Jon says in frustration. “Asha Greyjoy has been amassing fleets, but no one can get close enough to question why.”

“Fleets? Is she planning to wage war on Winterfell?” Robb asks. “And what about her father, Balon?”

“I just said I don’t know!”

“One thing we know,” Davos pipes in, “King’s Landing is in the shitter. Even if Cersei Lannister has gotten herself a nice throne, no one in their right mind is going to trust her or willingly fight a battle for her – the Targaryen girl will most likely take that throne right out from under her.”

“Which means I don’t need to spend any more time thinking about that fucking throne.” Jon tells them firmly, obviously angry about having this conversation _again_.

“Right,” Robb squeezes his shoulder as he passes him and pours himself a drink.

“We’re missing something.” Jon says quietly. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something we’re not seeing that is key to this whole damn thing.”

“Well, until you find this missing _key_ , how about you rally up the men you _do_ have to get something done.” Tormund suggests. Jon scowls at him and Robb sighs.

“Listen,” Robb says, “We’re going to have to decide-“

“We need to tell the other lords.” Davos cuts in suddenly, looking meaningfully at Jon. Jon stares at him and then looks at Robb.

“Tell the lords…he _knows_?” Robb demands, looking between Davos and Jon. Jon nods and Tormund stares at them all in confusion.

“What did I just miss?”

“Robb is Robb Stark of Winterfell, my brother who was slain at the Red Wedding.”

Tormund looks blankly at Robb, considering this. Robb gapes at Jon.

“You didn’t tell me he knew!”

“What does it _matter_?” Jon asks. “It’s over, it’s done, and he’s _right_. You can’t stay locked away in here away from the other lords forever, and Petyr Baelish is likely going to tell them soon enough. We’re going to have to tell everyone.”

“This is a bloody disaster,” Tormund growls, turning and sulking out of the hall. Jon watches him go with a look of exasperation. He looks back at Robb.

“He’s happy for you, truly,” his brother deadpans. Robb laughs.

“You need to tell them, and it needs to be soon. The longer you keep him hidden, the bigger the consequences when he eventually is found out.” Davos advises Jon.

“I know,” Jon nods. “Can you…give us a moment?”

“Of course,” Davos bows his head first to Jon, then to Robb, before he takes his leave. Jon looks over at Robb tiredly and Robb walks over to him, leaning on the desk to face him.

“I never did ask; why are the wildling men loyal to you? What happened?”

Jon huffs out a laugh and leans back in his chair. “A series of events that would take ages to explain. He doesn’t see me as a king, because the wildlings don’t really hail _anyone_ as their king.” He sounds admiring of the notion. “I met him when I was held captive by the King Beyond the Wall, Mance Rayder.”

“You gained his respect?”

“After a long time, I think so.” Jon nods. “We’ve saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion. I helped him get more Wildlings to safety before the White Walkers took Hardhome.”

“I’ve missed so much,” Robb comments. Jon places a pale hand on his brother’s thigh.

“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

∞

_He’s led through the gates of Winterfell by two taller men. His face is throbbing, blood dripping from the top, past his eyes and nose, into his mouth. He feels furious, but even more so when he sees the smug face of Theon Greyjoy._

_“We caught this one on ‘is way back from Torrhen’s Square.” One of the guard tells Theon. Jon continues to struggle against their grip defiantly. “Took out two of ours before I got his sword.”_

_“Ser Rodrik,” Theon says diplomatically, “It grieves me that we meet as foes.”_

_“It grieves me of less honor than a back-alley whore.” Jon-as-Rodrik spits at him. Theon’s jaw clenches in outrage. “You were raised here, under this roof, these people are_ your _people-“_

 _“They are_ not _my people,” Theon replies instantly._

_“King Robb thought of you as a brother!” Jon retorts. He can see the comment hits its intended mark, but Theon brushes the hurt away._

_“My brothers are dead. They died fighting Stark men – men like you!”_

_“Aye!” Jon shouts. “They died fighting a war your father started! Lord Stark raised you among his own sons.”_

_“Among them, but not one of them,” Theon tells him fiercely. “I was a hostage, taken from my home,”_

_“If he were alive to see this,” Jon begins._

_“He’s_ not _, He’s_ dead _. The Seven Kingdoms are at war and Winterfell is mine.”_

_“I should have put a sword in your belly instead of your hand,” Jon-as-Rodrik growls lowly, seeing the way it makes Theon’s rage build even higher at the insult. He sees the boy fight the urge to rise to the taunt._

_“You’ve served this house faithfully, old man, but keep talking and I’ll-“ Jon spits in his face before he can finish and quickly receives an elbow to the back of the neck which brings him down to his knees. He is then dragged upwards to stare up at Theon’s incensed face._

_“Take him to the cell, lock him up-“_

_“You cannot let that stand, he must pay,” another man cuts Theon off angrily._

_“I’ll lock him in a cell until he rots, right-“_

_“No!” The man growls. “He has to pay the iron price. They’ll never respect you while he lives.”_

_Jon stares angrily at the two men in fury as he watches Theon bend to this man’s will. All along, Theon had never been playing his own hand, but off the decks of everyone else. Theon looks around at everyone else and Jon can see Bran and Rickon sitting with Maester Luwin and others on the side looking horrified._

_Finally, Theon nods and says, “Ser Rodrik, I sentence you to death!”_

_“No!” Bran shouts, “You said no harm would come to them if I yielded!”_

_“The old man couldn’t keep his mouth shut!” Theon snaps back at the younger lad. Maester Luwin rushes forward to Theon’s side._

_“Young man, I urge you not to make a hasty decision.” Luwin urges him._

_“He disrespected me in front of my men, that was his decision, not_ mine _!” Theon argues, sounding for all the world like a spoiled child. It grates on Jon-as-Rodrik’s already infuriated nerves._

_“He is worth more to you alive than dead,” Luwin tells him softly. “The Starks will pay; please, Theon, think what you do.”_

_A tense moment of silence stretches on and as Jon watches, Theon shifts over yet another line in the sand and says, “You’ll address me as Prince Theon, or you’ll be next.”_

_“Come on!” One of the guards hauls Jon-as-Rodrik into a standing position and moves him into place._

_“No!” Bran shouts._

_“No!” Rickon jumps forward. Both brothers plead for Theon to reconsider, to remember who he is, to remember they are his_ brothers _, but it does no good. Jon stares at the face of the boy he’d hated for so long before he’d realized there were worse things than a courtyard bully._

_“He who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” Jon-as-Rodrik mocks Theon who is standing aside, allowing another man to do the execution. In the background, Bran and Rickon are screaming for it to stop._

_“I’m begging you!”_

_“Coward,” Jon adds as the guards throw him to his knees and position his head over the wooden bench on the ground. Theon unsheathes his sword furiously and Bran_ screams _,_

_“Stop! Stop right now!”_

_“You don’t give commands anymore, little lord.” Theon tells the young Stark. It has begun to rain, freezing them all, and Jon stares at the tormented face of Bran, so young and small, already having lost so much._

_“Please, stop him! Stop him!” Bran is begging anyone who will listen, his legs no longer able to grant him the option to throw himself at Theon’s feet._

_“Hush, little lord.” Jon-as-Rodrik attempts to soothe the boy, showing no fear in the wake of his own execution. “I’m off to see your father.”_

_“You said no harm would come!” Bran cries out to Theon. Theon puts the blade of his sword above Jon and asks,_

_“Any last words, old man?”_

_Jon-as-Rodrik looks Theon directly in the eye and says simply, “Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy. Now you are truly lost.”_

_“Please don’t do this!” Bran calls._

_“Do something!” Rickon pleads meekly. Jon-as-Rodrik bows his head to the might of Theon’s sword._

_“I’ll do anything, please!” Bran cries. The first slash of Theon’s sword doesn’t sever the head from the neck, so he swings again, and once again fails. Jon closes his eyes._

_When he opens them again, it is no Theon Greyjoy’s face or any of the Iron Islanders or Bran or Rickon that he sees._

_He’s sitting against the weirwood tree in the godwood, facing the calm pool. He feels sore and tired, his breathing coming shallowly and his eyes only opening very slightly. He can’t move very well, but he attempts to see what is happening when he hears footsteps approaching._

_He looks up to see Hodor carrying Bran, while Rickon walks alongside with a woman. Rickon spots him and sprints for him despite the protests of the woman whose hand he had been holding. Despite his weakened state, Jon smiles at the young boy and reaches for him – there is blood on his hand. Rickon lifts the edge of Jon’s sweater, jingling the links of the maesters as he does so, and Jon looks down to see the blood soaked into his tunic._

_“Tell us what medicines to get from your chambers.” Bran says hurriedly, having been lowered down to see Jon by Hodor._

_“So we can make you better,” Rickon adds desperately._

_“I feel just fine.” Jon tells him softly, and Rickon looks down sadly._

_“They burned it down,” Bran says angrily. “They burned_ everything _-“_

 _“No, no,” Jon shakes his head, “Not everything. Not_ you _.” He pauses. “But they may come back, you have to go, put on your warmest clothes, pack as much food as you can carry and go north.”_

_“North’s the wrong way.” The woman says. “Their mother and brother are south.”_

_“We don’t know where,” Jon tells them. “There are too many enemies in the south. Go to the Wall, to Jon. He’ll look after you and let your mother know you’re safe.”_

_“I don’t want to leave you.” Bran says, reaching for not-Jon’s hand._

_“No more than I want to leave you,” not-Jon replies sadly and seriously, watching the young Stark closely. “I pulled you into the world – both of you.” He adds to Rickon._

_Luwin, Jon thinks. Maester Luwin._

_“I’ve seen both your faces almost every day since, and for that I consider myself very, very lucky.” Rickon hiccups out a sob. “Go now, with Hodor! I’ll be right here.” He tries to laugh, but fails at cheering anyone up. Hodor stands, taking Bran and Rickon away quickly._

_“Osha,” Jon-as-Luwin says, and the woman leans down to hear him. “You must protect them; you’re the only one who can.” She looks around and he adds, “You may have to protect them against your own kind.”_

_“I’ve got no great love for my own kind.” She replies. A sharp pain overtakes him and he struggles to breathe. Osha moves her hand but seems unsure if she should touch him._

_“I’ll get you the milk of the poppy.” She says finally. “Tell me where to find it.”_

_“I don’t want milk of the poppy.” Jon-as-Luwin states firmly. He nods instead to the dagger in her pocket. She looks down at it and then back at Luwin. Jon nods to her, firm._

_“Do it quickly,” he begs her quietly. She unsheathes the dagger and meets his eyes one last time before sliding the blade across his throat._

Jon wakes up shaking with grief, tears falling down onto his cheeks in both anger and sorrow. He had known Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin his entire life, but he had never grieved their deaths; there had never been time to grieve for men hundreds of miles away while fighting a different war.

Now, he lies in bed thinking about all the deaths that have come and gone without Jon noticing. It causes an ache in his heart to think that so many have died for nothing – for a fool, a fraud, a murderer, a drunk.

He clutches Robb’s hand in his and turns over to look at his brother’s smooth and pale face. The remaining glow of the fire plays off his stunning complexion and Jon’s other hand comes up to trace his jawline and cheekbones, to brush over his red lips and dust across his eyelids. With a sleepy mumble, Robb turns onto his side so he is facing away from Jon. Jon smiles softly and moves closer, clutching his brother to his chest and kissing his neck. The tears continue to fall as he thinks on his father and on Robb, on Catelyn and Rickon. He prays to the gods in gratitude for giving him back the one he truly couldn’t have lived without.

“I love you,” Jon whispers into his brother’s skin and Robb twitches slightly. He thinks about how Ygritte had looked when she had died in his arms, her fiery hair lit up in a halo from the bonfire in the courtyard, the arrow of Olly’s bow lodged inside of her. Guiltily, he thinks she was never as beautiful as Robb.

“Why are you awake?” Robb’s sleepy voice mumbles as his hand caresses the arm Jon had thrown around his waist. “Dreams?”

Jon nods, his curls brushing against Robb’s skin.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Jon replies simply.

“Then what _do_ you want to talk about?” Robb turns in the bed to face Jon, his blue eyes heavy-lidded but clear.

“Did you love Talisa?” Jon asks softly. He isn’t sure why he asks, just knows that it’s always weighed on him – he could compare Robb to Ygritte and know they were two different people, but know he never truly loved Ygritte.

“Yes,” Robb whispers gently, his hand coming up to brush a curl out of his brother’s dark eyes.

“How did you meet her?” Jon asks him. Robb smiles self-consciously and replies,

“After one of the battles, she was trying to save a man’s life by cutting off a rotten leg. I held the man down so she could get on with it.”

“You fell in love with a woman over a rotten limb?” Jon laughs and can just barely make out the blush on his brother’s cheeks.

“No,” Robb laughs with him softly. “She then went on to criticize me for going to war with men who had never even met the Lannisters and how I was cruel to have let so many die for a war they wanted no part in. And…no one had argued with me quite like that since you’d left for the Wall.”

He says the last part so quietly, it’s barely more than breath between them. Jon feels his stomach tighten with love and fondness for his brother. They’d both been lonely, both given up any hope of being together; he feels no animosity for Robb at finding someone to share the time with.

“And your mother?”

“Did not approve one bit.” Robb laughs, his arm coming around Jon’s shoulder from behind. Jon takes the hint and slides into Robb’s side, his head on his brother’s chest, listening as his brother tells him about the woman he called his wife.

“I could feel myself loving her, how _easy_ it would be to love her.” Robb tells him, his fingers tracing patterns into Jon’s bare back. “And every time I felt it, I’d pull back. I’d think of how much I was betraying you, despite how angry I still was with you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers into his skin, but Robb shakes his head.

“Don’t be, we both made the choices we had to. But for a while, I felt like if I fell in love, it was a dishonor to you, and the last thing I wanted was to cause more harm to you; you had already suffered so much.”

“I wanted you to be happy.”

He tells Jon of the night in the tent, after learning of his mother’s betrayal, of Theon, of everything that had gone wrong – and about Talisa’s story about her brother almost drowning and the night they had spent together.

“And I told mother I was going to marry her.” Robb finishes, and then he sits up. Jon rolls to the side to stare up at his brother, finding tears in his eyes. Robb kisses him then, softly. “Because I loved her.”

“I know,” Jon nods, but he finds it breaks his heart anyways.

“Jon,” Robb sighs sadly, caressing his face. “Please don’t cry, I didn’t want you to-“

“I know.” Jon repeats, shaking his head and looking away. Robb tilts his face back to look at him.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” Jon tells him quietly. “I want to be, but I can’t. You fell in love, and I’m happy for you.”

“It wasn’t the same as loving you.” Robb promises him. “ _Nothing_ could be the same as this. I loved her, yes, but I loved her with what remained of my heart, do you understand? I loved her with the piece of me I hadn’t already given away to you when you left.”

“I understand, Robb, I do.” Jon pulls him down by his neck to kiss him chastely. “I understand, because I almost did the same thing.”

Robb sits back suddenly, staring down at Jon in shock.

“You-“

“I almost deserted for you, when I found out about father and about you going to war with the Lannisters.” Jon tells him gently. “That was the first time, but I went back and kept my oaths. It wasn’t…it wasn’t the last time.”

“You broke your oaths?” Robb asks in astonishment.

“I did,” Jon nods. “For…a girl that ended up dead anyways.”

“I don’t…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was supposed to kill her,” Jon says softly. “I had never killed a woman before, and I didn’t want to have to do it – she was a wildling girl we’d found and I was meant to execute her, but I couldn’t do it. Although, honestly, by the end of the first night I spent trekking around with her, I _wanted_ to kill her.” Robb laughs at this, his smile lighting up his eyes.

“She was annoying, would never shut up. And…”

“And?” Robb raises an eyebrow.

“She kept trying to have relations with me.”

“She _what_?!” Robb roars at that, leaning his forehead against Jon’s shoulder as he laughs, shoulders shaking with the effort.

“She was a piece of work! She kept saying it wasn’t right that I swore an oath to never touch a woman, kept trying to mess me up so I’d let her go. And it worked – in so much as I was so shocked she got away and _I_ ended up the prisoner of the Wildlings.”

“All while I was fighting the Lannisters?”

“I suppose,” Jon nods slowly. “Strange, isn’t it? To think we were living separate lives then, fighting completely different wars?”

“What happened after the girl took you prisoner?” Robb asks, settling down beside his brother to listen.

“I was there with one of the more experienced rangers, Qhorin Halfhand, and he wanted me to join the wildlings, to find out as much as I could and to get them to trust me.”

“How did you do that?”

“I killed Qhorin.”

There’s a long pause after Jon says this, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Robb sits up to look into Jon’s eyes.

“Why?”

“Because he wanted me to. It was the only way for them to think I had forsaken the Watch. I…it was the first time since joining the Night’s Watch when I felt like a bastard again. Like an unwanted child, because I was on my own out there in the freezing cold. And I was never a very good actor.”

“Right,” Robb snorts. “I remember you trying to convince Sansa it was you who stole her gown for Jeyne’s nameday party – and she wanted to believe you because she _hated_ you, but you were _so_ terrible at pretending.”

“It was worth it.” Jon replies, kissing Robb’s shoulder. “For what we did afterwards, out in the godswood.”

“It was,” Robb nods, smiling and pulling Jon into a kiss before leaning away.

“So, you had to kill this man to gain the Wildlings trust. And then?”

He tells Robb about the City Beyond the Wall, about the people living there, about meeting Tormund, and then,

“You fucked her?” Robb questions quietly.

“I did,” Jon says just as softly, sounding sad. “And despite how easy it would have been to love her, and despite the fun we had together, I didn’t _have_ anything left to give her.” He looks at Robb. “She died, a couple years later; she was shot and killed during a raid on Castle Black, and I remember neither of us wanted to say goodbye, but I think she had always known I could never love her the same way she loved me.” They’re quiet another moment longer. “She had red hair, like you, and I remember thinking that I could pretend for a little while that if we had met under different circumstances, it could’ve been like that.”

“You thought of me,” and despite how boyish it sounds, Jon can hear the fondness and awe in Robb’s voice, can see it in his eyes. “ _Gods_ , Jon.”

“Don’t,” Jon shakes his head when Robb leans over to kiss him. Robb backtracks, looking puzzled. “I don’t want to do this after talking about the wife you loved.” Jon tells him gently. “I…I can accept and understand what you did, Robb, but I need you to understand that I was _furious_ when I got word that you were married.”

“You said you hadn’t cared when you found out, if I was _happy_ ,” Robb furrows his brown in confusion.

“When you were _dead_!” Jon slides out of bed and runs a hand through his curls. “Robb, I had spent days travelling with the knowledge that I was betraying not only the Night’s Watch, but also a woman who loved me and who I loved, even if I wasn’t _in_ love with her. And through it all, I did it with the knowledge that I was always yours. And then I finally dragged myself back to Castle Black and received word that you were dead, and while I was storming through frozen wastelands and killing people who _trusted_ me, you had gotten married and sired a child and I was _left_ with _nothing_.”

Robb tries to interject, but Jon talks over him.

“So I grieved for this boy that I loved with all my heart and I grieved for the child he had sired with this woman whom he married, and I went on trying to fight while knowing that you had chosen someone who wasn’t me. And I couldn’t even be _angry_ because I had known from the beginning that it was what was expected of you. But to get word slowly from further south that you had forsaken a betrothal to Walder Frey’s daughter because of _love_ , I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t understand how you could have…could have…”

“Jon?”

_He’s standing above the body of a dead woman, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, hand clutched over her stomach that is bloody and ravaged. He walks to her, clutches her, and puts his hand over her swollen belly._

_Talisa Stark, Jon thinks. She was beautiful, and she had_ him _._

“Jon!”

Jon gasps, eyes going wide as he realizes he’s now on the stone floor, Robb’s worried face staring down at him, his hands cradling Jon’s head.

“What?”

“What just happened?” Robb demands. “You suddenly just dropped – I didn’t know what was happening!”

“I’m okay,” Jon gasps, though he isn’t sure if he’s okay. “Robb?”

“Yes?” Robb is still staring down at him with concern. Jon blinks up at him, face white as a ghost.

“Talisa – Her hair was brown and long, down to her waist,” Jon whispers, “Brown eyes. She was stabbed in the belly?”

“How – How did you know that?” Robb looks shaken and Jon squeezes his eyes shut and says,

“I need you to get Davos. Now.”

 


	5. Stark Promises

Jon’s face is pale, his limbs shaking with cold, and it takes all of Robb’s strength to lift him off the ground and into a chair by the fire, covering him with one of the furs off the bed. Ghost is pacing the room, casting anxious glances at his master, and Robb understands the wolf’s worry; he feels it, too.

A soft knock at the chamber door announces Davos’ arrival, and Robb quickly ushers him inside.

“What happened?” Davos asks, making right for where Jon is still shaking in the chair. Since asking for the older man, Jon hadn’t said another word, has barely _looked_ at Robb.

“We were talking and he just passed out. When he woke up he – he said some troubling things and then told me to get you.”

“Troubling things?” Davos frowns at the elder Stark brother. Robb sighs and runs a shaky hand through his red locks.

“He knew what my wife looked like…when she died.” Robb tells him quietly. Davos nods seriously and kneels down in front of Jon, putting his hands on Jon’s knees in a fatherly fashion. Robb stays back, knowing they need their space.

“Jon,” Davos says urgently, “Jon, can you hear me?”

Jon nods faintly, his eyes staring at the flames in the fireplace that Robb had been quick to restock. Ghost comes to Robb’s side, brushing against the man and sharing his body heat. For a moment, Robb isn’t sure which one of them needs the reassurance more.

“Tell me what happened,” Davos instructs him.

“I’ve been having dreams,” Jon says, his voice croaking from his dry throat. Robb moves away to pour his brother a glass of water from a nearby table. “Dreams about…about people I know or that I’ve heard of – their deaths, I’ve been seeing them.”

“Seeing them?” Davos questions. “Like you’re in the room when they happen?”

“No,” Jon shakes his head. “Like I’m _them_. I’m in their body when they die, from the moments leading up to it until the moment of death, and then I usually wake up or a different dream starts.”

“In your dream,” Davos begins as Robb hands Jon the cup from which he drinks greedily, his hands starting to shake a little less as Davos’ voice calms him down. “Were you Talisa?”

“No,” Jon shakes his head again and then looks up at his brother. “I think I was _you_.” Robb stares at him and then looks to Davos for help; _why is this happening to my brother?_ He wants to scream at the man. _Why can we never get a moment of peace?_

“Do you think…is this a side effect of what she did?”

“I don’t know.” Davos shakes his head and looks up at Robb. “Since you woke back up, have you had any dreams?”

“No, sir,” Robb denies.

“What if she cursed me?” Jon asks quietly, staring at Davos in despair. “What if she did this so that I’d have to rely on her to-“

“No, Jon,” Davos shakes his head firmly. “We can’t know that for sure.”

“She _burned_ a little girl!” Jon explodes angrily and Davos flinches away from the outburst. Robb’s frown deepens. “Is it so hard to believe that she could make me re-live someone else’s deaths?”

“Did you…when you were in my body, did you die?” Robb asks hesitantly. Jon looks up at him and then shakes his head.

“No, I was just looking at Talisa.” He looks back at Davos. “It’s the first time it’s happened like that.”

“What were you talking about before it happened? You usually only have these dreams when you’re actually asleep?”

“This is the first time while I was awake,” Jon confirms, and then says, “And we _were_ talking about Talisa – maybe that set it off?”

“Maybe,” Davos nods, though he looks and sounds unsure. “Whose deaths have you seen?”

“I think…the first one, I think I was…Aerys Targaryen,” Jon says softly.

“The Mad King?” Robb frowns.

“Yes,”

“Who else?” Davos questions.

“There was a boy, he was with Daenarys Targaryen. I don’t know who he was. Then there was my father,” he looks helplessly at Robb for a moment before continuing, “Renly Baratheon, a few others from Winterfell? And now, Robb’s wedding, though it wasn’t like the others.”

“I will do some digging.” Davos promises Jon gently. “And…you should write to Sam. Perhaps he can find something where he’s at.”

Jon nods and Davos grips his hands tightly for a moment before bowing to the both of them and exiting the room. Robb sits on the arm of the chair beside his brother.

“Sam?”

“A boy I knew in the Night’s Watch,” Jon tells him, sounding exhausted. “He’s my best friend.”

“Where did he go?” Robb asks as he carefully pulls Jon from the chair and leads him back to the bed, knowing his brother needs rest.

“Our maester died, and Sam has always wanted to be one, so I sent him to the Citadel to be trained as one.” He frowns as Robb pushes him down onto the bed and then crawls up next to him. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“You’re exhausted, Jon. You _need_ to sleep.”

“And what about the dreams?” The question is asked with a bitter tone, but looking at his brother, Robb can tell he’s scared.

“You wake me if it happens.” Robb commands him. “I’m right here, Jon, so let me help you with this.”

“Okay,” Jon whispers, knowing he needs to sleep but fearing the dreams that might await him.

“I’ve got you,” Robb whispers, nuzzling into Jon’s curls while he wraps his arm around his waist, his chest to his brother’s back.

∞

“I want to go to the Iron Islands.”

Jon, Robb, Tormund, and Davos all look up from where they were eating in the study, away from prying eyes.

“You…what?” Jon frowns at her.

“You said it yourself, we don’t know what Asha Greyjoy is planning to do with the fleets she’s amassed, and Theon is there. He’ll respond better to me than to _you_.” She points out.

“And you think Asha Greyjoy is just going to willingly give up her family secrets? As if Balon Greyjoy wouldn’t have you drowned for asking questions immediately-“

“Theon will protect me,” she replies assuredly. “I _told_ you: Theon is not the same boy he was, nor the cocky fool he tried to be. He’s different, and he’ll protect me.”

“I don’t know,” Jon shakes his head with a deep frown. “The Iron Islands are a dangerous place for most; sending a young girl there-“

“I’m not a _girl_ ,” Sansa snaps, “I’m a _fucking_ woman, and the Lady of Winterfell. Even if Balon Greyjoy feels the need to make crude jokes, they’ll show me at least a little courtesy.”

“Maybe she’s right, Jon,” Robb says finally. Jon turns to look at him. “After all, if anyone is going to be allowed there after the Battle you all fought, it’s going to be Sansa Stark. Not a bastard or a wildling or any of the other things they’ll call you. And Theon pledged his life to Sansa when he rescued her from Ramsay-“

“He pledged his life to _you_!” Jon exclaims angrily.

“And he has more than made up for the wrongs he did.” Sansa argues. “He was beaten, starved, sliced, flayed, and chopped into pieces for his failings, and he has come out a far different man than he was.”

The table falls silent and then Tormund chuckles.

“She’s a fierce one, Snow. She’s going to go whether you allow her to or not, so you might as well plan for all outcomes rather than her just running off in the middle o’ the night to do gods knows what.”

Jon as to admit that the wildling has a point, even if he wishes it didn’t make so much sense. Robb nods from his side. Jon looks to Davos.

“I think it can’t hurt,” Davos tells him honestly. “We need to know where the Greyjoys stand, and if Lady Stark is how we do so, then it’s a chance we need to take.”

Jon sighs and says, “We’ll plan for you to go there, then.”

Sansa smiles, pleased.

“ _But_ , you’re not going alone. You’re taking guards-“

“I’ll take Brienne with me.” Sansa says.

“Brienne hasn’t returned-“

“She has.” Sansa cuts Jon off. “She returned last night with Podrick. Brienne will go with me to the Iron Islands.”

Jon contemplates this before nodding in agreement.

“Okay, you will go to the Iron Islands.”

“Jon-“

“Your Grace!” The door to the study swings open to reveal a young handmaid. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but-“

“There’ll be no need for this.” Lord Manderly pushes past her and steps into the room. Robb stands abruptly from where he is seated next to Jon and the two men stare at one another.

“Lord Manderly,” Robb chokes out, and the older man sputters in surprise.

“Your…Your Grace!” Lord Manderly instantly kneels to the ground, bowing before Robb. Robb looks warily down at him and then at Jon.

“I’m not your king, Lord Manderly.” Robb says finally, and the older lord slowly stands, looking between Jon and Robb.

“How…how is this possible?”

“Haven’t you learned yet, old man?” Tormund queries nonchalantly. “Ain’t nothing in these here parts impossible. Especially not for this lot.” He motions to the remaining Starks.

“Your Grace,” Lord Cerwyn pushes into the room behind Manderly in a hurry, stopping short to gape at the red-haired lord in front of him. Like the older lord, he drops to his knee.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jon demands, standing up beside his brother.

“Movement of the White Walkers you speak of,” Petyr Baelish steps into the room behind the other men, and suddenly Jon realizes that it was him who did this; even if the story is true, Littlefinger made sure to send the men straight to the study to inform Jon.

“I don’t –“ Manderly is at a loss for words.

“It’s all right,” Robb assures them hesitantly. “But please, do not kneel.” Cerwyn stands slowly, unsure.

“Your Grace, we were under the impression you had _died_.”

“I _did_.” Robb laughs slightly, nervous. “But the gods saw fit to bring me back to help out.”

“Is this true?” Manderly looks at Jon questioningly. “Has he been back this whole time?”

Jon opens his mouth to reply, but Davos raises a hand and stands as well.

“We should call a meeting,” he implores Jon. “Make an official announcement before this gets completely out of hand.”

“Right,” Jon nods and swallows thickly. “Gather everyone in the dining hall.”

“Of course,” Davos nods and exits the room. Jon dismisses the others and Manderly and Cerwyn look to Robb hesitantly. Robb nods shortly and they leave.

“This is a disaster,” Jon sighs, sitting down heavily in his chair.

“What do we tell them?” Robb asks.

“I don’t know! They won’t trust me.” He looks up suddenly. “They’re going to think I kept it from them intentionally, so they’d make me king.”

“I will put that rumor to rest.” Robb promises, taking his brother’s hands between his own. “Don’t worry, Sansa and I are going to be standing behind you for this.”

Jon nods, uneasy at the prospect of having to try and explain it all. Finally, he takes a deep breath and stands back up, his brother following his lead. They leave the room together and make their way down to the dining hall.

The hall is in chaos when they get there, everyone crying out and speaking over one another. Lyanna Mormont’s eyes follow him as Jon strides down the center, the crowd falling silent as he walks, all turning to look at the red-haired man marching behind him.

When they get to the head table where Sansa is waiting, Jon stands in front of the center seat, another chair having been pulled up for Robb to sit in. Everyone remains quiet as Jon stands before them.

“I thank you all for meeting here on such short notice.” Jon welcomes them graciously. “I’ve assembled you here to bring to light recent developments in the wars we are planning to fight together.” He looks to his right, and Robb nods encouragingly at him. “For those who do not know, this is by brother, Robb Stark, formerly known as both the heir to Winterfell and King in the North.”

There is a sharp intake of breath from many, while some begin shouting in shock. Jon raises a hand to silence them.

“After we reclaimed Winterfell, Robb was brought back to stand at my side in the wars to come.” Jon explains calmly. “It is true; he died in the Red Wedding more than three years passed, but he has returned by the grace and wisdom of the gods-“

“The gods sent him?” Someone in the crowd demands. Jon sighs and motions for Robb to stand beside him.

“Yes,” Robb confirms firmly with a nod of his head. “I awoke in the woods shortly after my brother retook Winterfell from the Boltons. I was told by the gods to help and guide my brother through the wars to come.”

“I understand this is all very shocking and confusing,” Jon says, “but Robb is back and he is going to be a major factor in the coming wars.”

“The _true_ King in the North!” Another person cries out, and then a cheer of _King in the North_ is being shouted out in the hall by several lesser nobles and people of Winterfell. Robb shakes his head and then raises his hand when the shouting doesn’t immediately die down.

“ _Jon Snow_ is King in the North,” he says firmly, “I am here to stand by his side; Jon has my full support as your leader.”

“You do?” Lord Manderly demands in surprise. “He can’t even get an army to follow him!”

Arguments break out amongst the men and Jon squeezes the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes, Lyanna Mormont is staring at him unwaveringly, her gaze boring down on him intensely. After a moment, her eyes slide over to Robb and purses her lips. As the shouting continues, she leans over to her maester and whispers something.

“This is madness!” Lady Dustin stands up in outrage. “I sent my men to you, Robb Stark, and they all died! Now you want me to trust _your_ word that Jon Snow can do better?”

Robb swallows hard and looks at Jon warily. More houses begin shouting their distrust of these goings on.

“Your Grace,” Petyr Baelish speaks loudly, over the voices of everyone, and they all quiet to look at the spidery man. No one knows if he speaks to Jon or to Robb. “It may be best for the other houses to discuss this with their people before we make any rash decisions.”

Despite his treacheries to the Stark children, Jon must admit that it is a levelheaded and wise course of action. He nods.

“I shall leave you to consider these matters and to pray to your gods.” He tells the houses and Northerners. “We shall reconvene tomorrow to discuss how we shall proceed.”

Dismissed, people begin leaving the feasting hall and Jon sits back down at the table tiredly. “Lord Baelish,” Jon calls before the man can leave. Littlefinger approaches the head table, with Davos and Tormund eyeing him warily.

“Yes, _my lord?_ ” Baelish replies, seeming to be mocking the former bastard of Winterfell.

“You said they had come to speak of the White Walkers. What happened?”

“There was a raven from a village farther North, just beyond the Wall. A neighboring one has been attacked and the villagers from which the raven was sent ask passage to come over the Wall to move towards Winterfell.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Jon sighs and then nods firmly. “Thank you, that’s all.”

“Of course,” Baelish nods and then bows lowly to the floor before turning on a heel and striding out after the others. Jon motions for Davos to come his way.

"Send a raven back to the few that stayed near the Wall as messengers. Everyone who is fleeing the wights is allowed passage." Davos nods firmly as Robb sits beside Jon and underneath the table puts his hand on his brother’s knee.

“It is in their hands now, brother,” Robb tells him.

“I know,” Jon says wearily. He turns to Sansa. “Go speak to Brienne about your departure for the Iron Islands.”

Sansa nods, collecting her skirt and exiting the hall.

“I’ll send the raven right away, then walk around, see how the houses are feeling about this revelation.” He tells Jon kindly. “I’ll bring back word to you later this evening.”

“Thank you, Davos,” Jon tells him earnestly. Davos nods, ducks his head, and departs.

“I don’t know what Littlefinger is planning.” Robb says warily, catching Jon’s attention once again. “He’s likely to already have another plan of action in place, after his stunt with Sansa and I didn’t work in his favor.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Jon replies, “make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

“He’s always been slippery,” Robb reminds his brother, “I have no doubt he can turn the winds in his favor once more.”

∞

_“Surely there are others out there who still dare to challenge my reign?”_

_Jon turns his head from his adoring crowd to see a table lined with an older man, Cersei Lannister, Tommen Baratheon, Tyrion Lannister, and Sansa. He suspects the older man must be Cersei’s father, Tywin._

_“Uncle?” Jon hears himself say, though as he expects, it’s not his own voice. “How about you? I’m sure they have a spare costume.” The crowd laughs and he sees the way Tyrion clenches his jaw, though he smiles. Sansa looks extremely uncomfortable. Tyrion pushes back his chair and stands._

_“One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace.” Tyrion replies, the cut on his face stretching painfully. “I would like to keep what remains of my face.”_

_This draws more laughs from the crowd, and Jon feels a jolt of rage burst through him at the man’s insolence. He recognizes the emotion not as his own, but the body which he’s staring through: Joffrey Baratheon, he realizes with horror._

_“I think_ you _should fight him,” Tyrion continues. “This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first-hand witness. Climb down from the high table with your new Valyrian sword and show everyone how a true king wins his throne. Be careful though, this one is clearly mad with lust. It would be a tragedy for a king to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”_

_Titters come from the crowd as Tyrion sits back down, the rage bubbling under Jon’s skin reaches peak height as the crowd grows anxious with the obvious tension between boy king and uncle. Beside him, Jon sees a fair-haired girl who he suspects in the Tyrell girl looking at him expectantly. Picking up his wine goblet, Jon-as-Joffrey moves across the high table to stand behind his uncle. With no hesitation, he upturns the cup over Tyrion’s head, covering the man with wine. The immense satisfaction of the immature action turns Jon’s stomach._

_Cersei and Tywin watch on humorously while Tommen simply seems confused by the proceedings. Sansa doesn’t move an inch and keeps her eyes staring forward; Jon fears she has already learned what it means to be with the Lannisters._

_“Fine vintage,” Tyrion comments calmly. “Shame that it spilled.”_

_“It did not spill,” Joffrey corrects him._

_“My love!” The Tyrell girl interrupts from her seat in the center, reaching her hand for him to come back. She clearly wishes to break the growing unease. “Come back to me. It’s time for my father’s toast.”_

_The group of dwarves standing on the stage depart and Jon-as-Joffrey turns to look at the girl._

_“Well, how does he expect me to toast without wine?” A hint of victory echoes through his veins when he adds, “Uncle, you can be my cupbearer, seeing as you’re too cowardly to fight.”_

_“Your Grace does me a great honor,” Tyrion replies to the chagrin of Joffrey. Jon feels Joffrey’s temper building once more._

_“It’s not_ meant _as an_ honor _,” he grits out through clenched jaw. The crowd is near silent as Tyrion stands, looks at Sansa, and then walks around the high table to stand before Jon, who drops the cup before it reaches his uncle’s hand, and then kicks it under the table when Tyrion bends to collect it. Joffrey smiles as he sees Cersei holding back a smug smile of her own. Jon feels nothing but revulsion for the woman._

_“Bring me my goblet,” Jon-as-Joffrey taunts the dwarf who is getting angrier with the childish actions. As the dwarf moves to grab it from underneath the table, Jon makes eye contact with Sansa. She looks disgusted as she pushes her chair back and leans down, coming back up with the goblet which she then hands over to Tyrion. His uncle holds the goblet up for him and Jon-as-Joffrey scoffs._

_“What good is an empty cup?” He demands. “Fill it.”_

_Tyrion picks up a vase of wine and fills the cup before handing the cup back to him once again. Joffrey doesn’t grab it._

_“Kneel,” he says. “Kneel before your king. Kneel.” Tyrion stares up at him but makes no move to do as he’s told. Joffrey is furious. “I said_ kneel _!” He screeches at the dwarf angrily. A long, silent moment stretches and suddenly the Tyrell girl shouts,_

_“Look, the pie!” It breaks the tension somewhat, though everyone notices Tyrion did not kneel before the boy king. The crowd begins applauding as the pie arrives, everyone standing up to see it. Jon stares down at Tyrion before remembering that he is the center of attention. He takes the goblet from his uncle’s hand angrily and drinks. He then hands the cup to the girl to hold with a “my queen,” before he unsheathes his sword and marches towards the pie. He lines up his sword with the top and swings, breaking the pie molding and exploding it into a flutter of white doves that flap their wings upward. Everyone claps in awe as the servers begin bringing out plates for them. Jon-as-Joffrey returns to his new wife’s side._

_“My hero,” she coos, her hands on his shoulders as they are handed a plate of pie. She takes a forkful of it and brings it to Jon’s lips. He eats it as she smiles at him and then he turns sharply._

_“Uncle,” he sees that Sansa and Tyrion are moving to leave the party. “Where are you going?” He demands. “You’re my cupbearer, remember?”_

_“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace.” Tyrion says diplomatically. Jon shakes his head._

_“Oh, no, no,” he says, “No, you’re perfect the way you are.” He takes another bite of pie. “Serve me my wine.”_

_Tyrion turns to glance at Sansa before he walks determinedly across the stage to collect the goblet from where it is sitting at the head table._

_“Well hurry up!” Jon spits at him. “This pie is dry.”_

_Tyrion picks it up and marches the cup over to the boy king to take. Jon-as-Joffrey takes a large gulp of the wine cheerfully._

_“Mm, good,” Jon murmurs. “Needs washing down,” the Tyrell girl laughs in response._

_“If it please Your Grace, Lady Sansa is very tired.” Tyrion pipes up once again._

_“No,” Jon says quickly. He coughs, his throat getting a scratch in it. “No, you’ll wait here-“ he cuts off with another cough, his throat starting to burn slightly. “Until-“ he coughs again, trying to make it stop, but the burn is getting worse, growing and overtaking his throat._

_“Your Grace?” Tyrion asks cautiously, stepping towards him with a small bit of growing concern on his face. Jon-as-Joffrey takes another desperate sip of the wine._

_“It’s nothing,” he says, but it’s a lie because he’s struggling to breathe around the burn. He heaves in breath that does nothing and turns to face his new wife, who looks horrified as she realizes what’s happening._

_“He’s choking!” She yells._

_“Help the poor boy,” an older woman at the head table shouts. In a panic, Jon turns and stumbles forward onto the stage clutching his throat that is slowly failing him. “Idiots, help your king!” He falters and falls onto the stage through a flurry of screams for help and feels himself convulsing until he vomits up blood-stained bile. He registers his uncle Jaime, the Kingslayer, leaning over him and flipping him over; Cersei is screaming hysterically as she clutches Jon-as-Joffrey to her._

_“Joffrey, Joffrey!”_

_He stares up at Cersei Lannisters face as he begins to lose his vision at the edges, his throat closed and no air getting into his body. He fills something drop from his nose and suspects it’s blood, but he can’t focus with the burning pain filling his entire body._

_“Joffrey, what is it?” Cersei begs and Jon-as-Joffrey barely manages to shift forward enough to point a blood-stained finger at his uncle Tyrion who has picked up the goblet lying on the ground. The pain increases immensely and he loses his vision, collapsing into Cersei’s lap as he convulses another time and-_

Jon blinks awake, his face leaping off the desk in the study. He’d been so exhausted, he’d fallen asleep while trying to study different parchments from the noble houses.

Incessant barking from out the window draws his attention and he groggily pushes away from the desk to look outside. Below, he can make out Ghost walking across the courtyard, trailed by three large hounds. With a shock, he realizes they’re Ramsay’s dogs.

He watches as the hounds follow the direwolf until they get too close and Ghost turns to nip at them. The hounds back off slightly but continue to follow the large wolf. Jon laughs out loud, because the thought of the horrible hounds being nothing more than pups chasing who they’ve now claimed as their _mother_ is hilarious.

“Hey,”

Jon turns to see Robb standing in the doorway to the study.

“It’s late, you should come to bed.”

“I will in a second,” Jon promises. “Come look at this.”

Robb walks over to him and Jon points out the direwolf, who is now watching as the hounds chase each other playfully. A few wildling men have stopped to stare at the “beasts” in bewilderment. Robb huffs out a chuckle.

“I guess you can’t blame the pups for their masters.”

“No,” Jon agrees, “You can’t.”

“Come to bed,” Robb repeats, his hand sliding down his brother’s arm until he can grab his hand and slowly tug him towards the door. Jon smiles at him and leans over to blow out the lamp on the desk before allowing himself to be dragged down the hallway to the bed chamber.

Robb helps him remove his clothing and then begins running his hands teasingly across his brother’s pale skin. He pulls Jon into a searing kiss, their bodies pressing together deliciously as Robb’s tongue traces his brother’s lips. Jon’s thumbs dig into the V of Robb’s hips, sliding just below the hem of his breeches. Robb bites at his lips and slides his tongue into Jon’s mouth, using Jon’s curls to tilt his head enough to practically devour him.

Jon moans into his brother’s mouth, allowing himself to gently be pushed towards the bed. His knees hit the edge of the bed and he collapses backwards, Robb following to land on top of him, a reassuring and solid weight above him.

“I know you want to move past it,” Robb murmurs. “But I wanted to make one thing clear.” He bites at Jon’s jaw, causing a shudder to roll up Jon’s spine and for him to clench onto his brother’s upper arms for support.

“What is it?” Jon asks breathlessly, his eyes closed tightly as Robb’s lips moved to suck at his throat.

“My wife,” Robb murmurs, not allowing Jon to move away at all when he jerks at the mention of Talisa. “She knew about you.”

_What?_

Jon sits up swiftly, staring at Robb in shock. Robb grins up at him, looking like the predator wolf hunting the gazelle.

“Talisa _knew_?”

“She asked me about previous lovers,” Robb explains, pushing Jon to once again lie back down so he can continue exploring his brother’s body. “I told her about my first love, about the boy who I’d loved since I was a young lad, barely old enough to know what love _was_. I told her about how I’d spend nights with you locked in our chambers, trying to keep quiet so no one would find out.” He scrapes his teeth over one of Jon’s nipples, his brother’s hips bucking up with the sensation.

“I told her I loved her,” Robb moves to straddle Jon possessively. “But that the boy who’d stolen my heart was always going to have it.” He cradles Jon’s face and kisses him sweetly, taking the breath right out of Jon’s body.

“You told her,” Jon whispers, staring up at his brother in astonishment.

“I did; not that it was my _brother_ , mind you, but I did tell her. And she understood, told me about a farm boy she’d met before me who she had almost run away with. We found love together in a tough situation.”

“I understand,” Jon nods as Robb brushes curls from his brother’s face.

“It’s what I was trying to tell you last night before you collapsed. That you didn’t have to be angry or jealous about Talisa, because I chose her knowing that I _couldn’t_ choose you; you weren’t coming back from the Wall.”

“I love you,” Jon says, and Robb grins brightly at him, leaning down to kiss him again. He slides out of his pants and tugs Jon’s naked body to him, his knee sliding in between Jon’s legs, rubbing beautifully against his brother’s groin.

“Gods,” Jon mumbles, his forehead resting against Robb’s. Robb smiles, pulling Jon backwards so his brother was on top of him. Jon kisses him, chasing the taste of him and shifting his hips into his brother’s, rubbing together and smearing themselves with their leaking cocks. Jon reaches over and grabs the vile of oil and offers it to Robb. Robb coats a finger and pulls Jon down roughly to continue kissing him while he teases at Jon’s entrance with an oiled finger. Jon pushes back into his brother’s hand and Robb breaches his entrance, massaging at the muscle to loosen him up. Jon moans into his mouth and Robb swallows the sounds, his other hand keeping a firm grip on Jon’s neck. Jon brushes his nose against Robb’s cheek and grins at him before gasping as Robb slides in a second finger. His face and chest are flushed and his eyes dark.

Robb opens Jon slowly, enjoying the way Jon’s face shows each new wave of arousal and bliss. He’d always been so pretty, pale skin accentuating pink lips. He almost cannot wait to see Jon on a battlefield, to see what his brother looks like with a sword in his hand and heaving chest, eyes bright with the battle craze of warriors. He can see it in his mind, his beautiful brother mixed alongside the masses of ordinary soldiers. He bets Jon is the loveliest of them all.

“Come on, Robb,” Jon pleads, kissing hurriedly at Robb’s lips in desperation, several chaste presses of those pink lips. “Come on, I want to feel you.”

Robb applies oil to his throbbing cock before grasping Jon’s hips to line up just right to slide his brother down in one movement. Jon hisses as his body stretches to accommodate the intrusion, but he’s soon making his delicious, desperate gasps as he holds himself up with hands on Robb’s chest. Slowly, Jon begins moving his hips in a smooth rhythm, making Robb’s mind forget everything except the feeling of Jon above him.

“So gorgeous,” Robb mumbles, his hand coming up to thumb at Jon’s lips. Jon’s tongue flicks out to lick at the finger and Robb chuckles as Jon leans down, claiming Robb’s mouth.

Jon has never understood why Robb always calls him beautiful. Not that he doesn’t understand that he’s attractive. Girls had always stared at him, had blushed when he looked at them, whispered about him behind their hands. But it was Robb that Jon had always known was the most striking one. His jawline, for one thing, was perfect, as if sculpted by one of the southern artists into stone. His red hair, which he knew his brother despised as too Tully-like, had always fallen in a way to frame his _gorgeous_ blue eyes. Eyes that could ice you over or melt you, depending on his brother’s mood. Robb had a smile that could cure almost any illness, plus he’d never had to go through the awkward phase of boy to man. Jon had trudged along, skinny and gangly, while Robb seemed to make the change practically overnight.

The fact that Robb had never looked at those other girls, had always returned to Jon when they were left to themselves, was a miracle. Jon had never pursued Robb, had never asked for anything, because he had had no right or claim to the heir of Winterfell. But Robb had continued to come back, again and again, had continued to love him and care for him, despite the many people telling him to leave the bastard boy alone.

“Jon,” Robb murmurs, looking curiously at Jon, who has pulled away to stare at his brother. “What is it?” Jon continues to rock slightly on Robb’s cock, but his attention had strayed.

“I’ll never understand why you would _want_ to choose me.” Jon whispers. Robb sighs and Jon shakes his head quickly. “I’m not being self-deprecating, I _swear_. I just…you always came back. No matter how awful or withdrawn I could be, no matter how busy you were, you always found me, always _wanted_ me.”

“Because you were mine,” Robb tells him honestly, turning them both suddenly to bracket his arms around his brother, boxing Jon in comfortably as he grinds his cock into his brother’s tight heat. “The gods gave you to me; I knew it even back then. Like some angel, you were, meant only for me.”

“Yours,” Jon agrees, kissing his brother. Robb grins wolfishly and starts thrusting into him in earnest. Jon’s back arches as he hits that perfect spot, his nails leaving red marks down his brother’s back as he moans in pleasure. Robb continues hitting that spot, taking the air out of Jon’s lungs, and bites down on his throat, marking him darkly. The combination of Robb setting his nerves on fire in his belly and the sharp sting of his teeth sends Jon over the edge, untouched, and he comes across his and Robb’s stomachs. Robb tilts his head to lick into Jon’s mouth as his rhythm speeds up and he tips over the edge, spilling his seed inside of his brother.

They kiss languidly for a moment, just enjoying the closeness of one another’s bodies. Despite the nights they’ve spent together, Robb wonders if he’ll ever quite get over the novelty of having Jon completely to himself, of knowing that he’s meant to be with Jon. He pulls out hesitantly and uses one of their shirts to wipe off the mess. He grips Jon to him, and thumbs at the mark bruising on his neck where he’d bitten. Jon shivers as Robb prods at the bruise before curling around Jon’s thinner frame.

∞

_With the fighting going on, no one sees as Jon runs from the group of feuding men and into the shelter where he finds Bran tied to a post and Hodor chained to the wall, two other children shackled and tied as well._

_“Rescue party’s here, lads!” He announces then looks at the single girl chained to the wall. “Lady,” he acknowledges. Bran looks up at him._

_“Is Jon with you?”_

_“Aye,” Jon takes his blade out of his belt and leans down to cut Bran loose. “I’ll take you to him. You’re Brandon Stark?”_

_Bran doesn’t answer, simply looks straight ahead and refuses to reply. Jon uses the blade to slice into the boy’s thigh; he doesn’t flinch._

_“Hodor!” Hodor exclaims in fear for his little lord._

_“Little crippled lord,” Jon says cheerfully. “We’re going for a ride!”_

_“Jon! Jon!” Bran starts screaming before Jon covers his mouth with a gloved hand._

_“Keep talking and I’ll cut your friends’ throats, starting with the idiot.” He warns, pointing the blade at Hodor. “Do you hear?” Bran stops struggling and nods, his eyes glaring at Jon. Hodor starts yelling as Jon picks up Bran and throws him over his shoulder._

_No one caught in the battle notices as he takes off running into the woods, just catching a glimpse of himself – the_ real _Jon – fighting at Craster’s Keep. He takes off running as fast as he can with the boy over his shoulder, dead weight flopping to-and-fro. He doesn’t make it very far before he’s struck from behind._

_He drops Bran into the snow and is swung around. Hodor picks him up by the throat, rage warring in the large man’s eyes in a way Jon himself has never seen. His feet leave the ground and he struggles against the man’s grip before Hodor takes his other hand and snaps his neck-_

Jon jolts awake and Robb’s arms tighten around him.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles sleepily, “You’re okay.”

Jon shudders, because this had been different. This one featured Bran, and Jon had been _there_. He could have seen…he could have saved Bran…he could have protected the family the way he’d promised he would to Robb, even if it was a promise made only in his head-

“Jon,” Robb says softly, more awake. “Jon, you’re incredibly tense right now, you need to calm down.”

“I could have stopped it,” Jon says quietly, his voice low and flat. Robb shifts before he sits up to look down at Jon.

“What?”

“I was there,” Jon says just as quietly. “Bran, I could have saved him, I could have-“

“Bran isn’t dead, Jon.”

“He was _right there_ and if I’d just _looked UP!_ ”

“Jon, what are you talking about?”

“I-“ Jon stops and then pushes out of bed, starting to get dressed even though dawn’s light was still a ways off.

“Jon, where are you going?” Robb asks exasperatedly. “Come back to bed, you’re dead on your feet-“

“I need to go…I’m not sleeping tonight. I need to go.” He tugs on his boots and laces them swiftly. Robb moves and puts his hands on Jon’s shoulders to settle him, but he shakes his brother off.

“Jon-“

“Get some sleep,” Jon tells him as he escapes.

∞

Robb doesn’t go back to sleep. He can’t, when he knows that Jon is slowly going mad with these dreams and he has no way of helping him.

Finally, when the first rays of morning begin to glow through the window, Robb rises and dresses before heading out into the halls of Winterfell. The looks he gets from all those he passes have changed from mild curiosity to outright staring, due to his status as the previous King in the North and his reborn nature.

“Robb,” Davos falls into step with him as they both go to break their fasts. “There was another raven this morning.”

“Yes?” Robb questions.

“Walder Frey and his kin were slain.”

“What?” Robb stares in shock, his steps faltering. Davos nods gravely.

“There are whispers that it was your sister, Arya. She’s known to some as having a grudge against those who have harmed her family.”

Robb nods, dumbfounded. “Does Jon know?”

“Yes,” Davos nods, “He was there when we first got the message.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He went hunting with some of the Wildling folk, I believe. He should be back soon, as the houses have called for a meeting once everyone is done breaking their fasts.”

“Right,” Robb nods and they continue walking to the dining hall.

Inside the feasting hall, everyone looks to the red-haired Stark in both amazement and _fear_ , something that makes Robb flinch away from their stares. Head down, he follows as Davos fills a plate for both himself and for Robb and leads him towards the front of the room where Sansa is seated with a giant woman, likely Brienne of Tarth.

“Lord Stark,” Brienne says, dipping her head to Robb as he sits.

“Lady Brienne,” Robb nods back to her as he sits beside his sister. “Sansa,” he acknowledges with a nudge of his shoulder against hers.

“Where is Jon?” Sansa asks him with a frown. Robb sighs, cutting at the meat on his plate.

“Hunting with the Wildlings,” Robb tells her simply. She nods, though she seems confused by this. Robb can understand why; knowing the nature of his and Jon’s relationship, it would be easy to assume they’d spend most of their nights together. If Jon had left early to hunt, it meant something wasn’t right.

“Eh!” A shout from near the back of the hall echoes loudly as the door opens to show a few large wildling men enter. They all exchange boisterous greetings with one another and then drag in a few deer on makeshift sleds to take back to Cook.

Tormund enters after them and Brienne makes a noise of exasperation from Robb’s left. He turns to look at her and she’s staring down at her plate in disgust.

“Would you mind if I-“

“Go ahead,” Sansa nods, a smirk playing on her face as Brienne excuses herself and leaves. The leer Tormund shoots her way tells Robb everything he needs to know about that particular relationship.

“Where is my brother?” Robb asks when Tormund sits down a minute later with a plate of steaming food. Tormund rolls his eyes and digs in, speaking around a mouthful of food.

“Said he had some work to do, went up to the study.”

“I need to ask him when he thinks Brienne and I might leave for Pyke,” Sansa sighs. She stands and picks up her empty plate. “I’ll see you at the meeting.”

Robb nods as she leaves and digs into his meal with little enthusiasm. Jon’s reaction this morning had been nothing short of worrying. His confusing speech, his insistence that he leave, it was all leading Robb to fear what was happening to his brother.

After breaking their fasts, Robb and Davos stood idly in the feasting hall until it seemed like everyone was beginning to enter for the meeting. Robb went to sit at the head table while Davos found a seat across from Lady Mormont.

Once it seemed that nearly everyone was there, Robb sees Jon enter from the back of the hall and move silently up the row of houses, his face blank and pale, hair pulled back tightly into a band, dark circles under his eyes making Robb’s worry spike. Jon catches his eye and simply nods, turning to face the rest of the hall.

“Thank you all for being here,” he says, his voice rough. “I assume the houses have made up their minds?”

“I’d like to say something first.” Robb states, standing and walking to stand at his brother’s side. Jon frowns at him. “My brother has fought nobly for my family, has fought bravely for the North, and has sacrificed a great deal so that you could all be here today.” Robb faces the rest of the hall. “You were ready to make him your king once, and you should find no reason to question him now. However,” Robb looks back at Jon, “Since it seems that my presence has caused a rift between my brother and the people of Winterfell, as he was my bastard brother and I a trueborn Stark, I want to firmly declare that Jon Snow is _not_ the bastard of Winterfell.” He faces the houses confidently and says, “He is Jon Stark, defender of the people, King in the North. To say otherwise is false. Jon is your rightful king.”

There’s a stunned silence while Jon stares wide-eyed at Robb’s face, searching for any clue that he might be bluffing. Robb smiles to his brother softly and nods his head. Then, with graceful movements, Robb slides to his knee and bows his head to his brother. When he looks up, his face is clear and decided.

“Jon Stark is the White Wolf.” He declares. “My king, from now until his final breath.”

Jon’s face is stricken, but his eyes shine down at his brother with so much surprise and love that Robb knows it is the right thing to do. Soon, every house in the hall has taken a knee and is bowing to Jon in respect, Sansa even sliding from her chair behind them to bow her head to her brother.

Jon looks out at the bowed heads of the people – _his_ people – and his heart beats rapidly in his chest.

“Stand,” he says gruffly, overwhelmed with emotion at the sight of the people. They rise, looking at him in expectation. Jon clears his throat. “I will do my best to honor your trust.” He promises them.

∞

Jon is sitting on the edge of the bed when Robb comes into the lord’s chamber that night. His hair is no longer tied back and his eyes look exhausted. No small wonder, since he’d not had proper rest in quite some time. He’s wearing just his trousers from the day, thick animal skin pulled tight over thigh and glute muscles. Robb’s quite enamored to the way his brother has filled out over the years.

“Hey,” Robb says softly, untying his cloak and hanging it up next to the door.

“Hey,” Jon replies, watching him with dark eyes. Robb leans down and unlaces his boots carefully, giving his brother time to collect his thoughts. When he’s done with the boots, he begins unlacing his leather vest and sets it onto the table nearby. He then rucks up his tunic and lets that fall to the ground. Jon watches it all with intensity, but makes no move to help. Finally, Robb walks slowly towards him and then sits beside him.

Jon leans his head on his shoulder and says, “You didn’t have to do that. They would have listened to you. You didn’t need to give me your father’s name.”

“ _Our_ father’s name,” Robb corrects him. “And yes, I did. I was…honoring a promise.”

“A promise?” Jon sits back up to frown at him. Robb sighs and stands.

“Lie down, I’m going to restock the fire.” Jon nods and unlaces his pants while Robb moves across the stone floor to the mantle place. Ghost’s red eyes follow his movements but soon gets bored and rolls onto his side to sleep. Robb smiles at him, knowing it’s his own brother’s sullen nature he’s copying.

Robb returns to the bed and crawls up next to Jon, his brother moving so that he’s laying between Robb’s legs, his back to Robb’s chest, and holding his hands around his waist.

“When is Sansa leaving?” Robb asks.

“She and Brienne are leaving at dawn,” Jon tells him. “Now, what promise?”

“One night, when we were travelling to Riverrun for grandfather’s funeral, Talisa came to me to tell me something my mother had said about you.”

“Something awful?” Jon questions, not sounding surprised. Robb smiles slightly, pressing his lips to his brother’s neck.

“ _No_ ,” he bites gently at the place where his lips had touched and Jon elbows him playfully. “She was making one of her prayer wheels, like the one she made for Bran after he fell.”

“I remember,” Jon nods.

“Talisa asked her about them, if she could help, and mother told her that only a mother could make them for her children. She told Talisa she’d made them twice before, once for Bran, and once for _you_.”

Jon stops breathing for a moment and then turns from his spot to stare at Robb. “She…what?”

“Do you remember when you got sick?”

“When you came and found me?” Jon asks.

“No, before then. You were much younger, I think. You had the pox.”

“I don’t remember,” Jon shakes his head. Robb shrugs and continues.

“Maester Luwin said that if you survived through the night, you’d live, so mother sat with you all night and weaved a wheel for you while she prayed.”

“Lady Stark _prayed_ for her husband’s _bastard_?” Jon gapes at him and Robb smiles softly.

“She did,” he assures him. He sobers after a moment and says, “She told Talisa that she hadn’t been able to look at you when father brought you home. She _hated_ you-“

“I _know_ ,” Jon replies and Robb shakes his head.

“She prayed for you to die.”

Jon just looks at him, no disgust or rage in his gaze when he asks, “She weaved me a prayer wheel and asked for me to die?”

“ _No_ ,” Robb snaps in exasperation at his brother’s failure to grasp what he is trying to say. “That’s when you got sick, _after_ she had prayed for you to die, and she said it was the worst thing she’d ever done. She said she had condemned an innocent boy to die because she couldn’t love you.”

Jon blinks at him in shock but doesn’t say anything.

“So, she prayed for you to _live_ and weaved a wheel for you; she promised that when you healed, she’d give you the Stark name, would be a mother to you. But she found she couldn’t do it. She was too bitter with father for betraying her, too upset with looking at you and being reminded of her inability to please her own husband. She said that that was why all of these horrible things have happened to us. Because, as Talisa told me, ‘she couldn’t love a motherless child’.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Jon shakes his head in confusion. “I don’t…”

“So today, I honored my mother’s promise to the gods and to you. You’re a Stark, Jon. You always have been, to me, but from this day forward, the name is officially yours.”

“ _Robb_ ,” Jon grips his face and kisses him, pouring everything he can’t say out loud into the kiss, into his touch. Robb pulls him closer, until Jon is straddling him, then tilts his head back to look at him.

“I love you, Jon Stark.” Robb smiles at him. “A proper king should have a proper name.”

“I love you,” Jon says, leaning down to kiss him once more.

 


	6. Interlude: Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you get hit with college papers, a broken laptop, and writer's block: you completely suck. My apologies for the long wait and the short chapter. Hopefully it won't ever take this long again!

The feel of cobblestone beneath her feet should hurt. It should bruise and scrape, should make her toes ache, should make her heels scream in agony.

She feels nothing but a cold numbness.

The dark cloak pulled around her thin frame hides the shine of her tattered dress. The hood hides her face in shadows; passersby look but cannot tell who she might be.

It’s better this way.

The coin clutched in her hand is wet from the sweat of her palm. She’s squeezing it so tightly it is leaving behind harsh indents in her flesh. She finds she can’t compel herself to let it go even a fraction. It’s a lifeline, the only thing between herself and her destination. All else could fail, but the coin in her hand will get her through.

She makes it to the city’s edge and ducks into an alley between a brothel and a smith’s shop. One of the smith’s apprentices is standing in the alley playing with a hairy dog who is desperately in need of a wash. He smiles happily at her, unaware of her inner turmoil. She spares him no extra look as she passes by him. The boy, no older than ten and three, frowns after her but she finds she has no care for what the lad might think.

Making it to the back of the brothel, she slips through a door into one of the backrooms that the keeper’s wife had fixed for them. It is small, barely bigger than the wardrobe that had once held her beautiful gowns, but she is grateful for even this much space.

Taking up most of the small space is a pile of pillows and a blanket for which she and her brother might catch a few fitful nights of sleep. Her brother currently sleeps there, huddled under a thin wool blanket. She can see him shivering and sighs to herself, gently placing the coin onto the ground beside the bed and leaning over her brother. From its spot on the floor, the coin reflects the edges of the small burning lamp in the corner; the sigil of the Seven illuminated on the golden surface.

She places her hand on her brother’s shaking shoulder and leans close to his ear.

“Loras,” she whispers, Margaery Tyrell letting the hood fall from her face to show its once porcelain complexion now covered in dirt and soot. Her hair has been cut rather crudely, now falling just above her thin shoulders.

Loras Tyrell turns his face slowly, the awful mark of the Seven etched forever into his face. She can tell it is infected, but they have no time as Margaery says insistently, “You must wake up. We need to leave tonight.”

∞

“The Martells have sworn sword to your cause, as have the Tyrells.” Tyrion tells Daenerys as they walk along the shores where several of the Greyjoy’s fleet are tethered to the giant rocks.

“How many do we have with them?” She asks the dwarf.

“The Martells bring four thousand, the remaining Tyrell fleet brings eight thousand.”

“More than enough,” Daenerys murmurs, but she still seems uncertain. She stops along the shoreline to stare at the waving sigil of the Greyjoy house. Tyrion stops with her, watching her as closely as she watches the banner.

“We will want to move soon, My Lady,” Tyrion tells her. “The more time Cersei remains on the Iron Throne is more time that she has to begin waging her own war.”

“Your sister is nothing,” Daenerys tells him firmly. “She poses no threat to me.”

“I would be careful to suggest something like that,” Tyrion replies hesitantly. “Pride cometh before the fall, and all that.”

“Of course,” She smiles down at him and they continue walking.

From onboard one of the Iron Born ships, Theon sits in the shadows below deck, his only source of light coming through cracks in the floorboards above his head. In his hands is a dark banner, covered in blood and mud. Through the crusted filth and the thin light of day that reaches him, Theon can just make out the symbol of a flayed man.

Ramsay Bolton is dead; that much is clear from the banner in his hands. It meant that Sansa had gotten to Jon and that Jon had taken back Winterfell. Faintly, Theon registers he should be happy for the death of his torturer. Ramsay Bolton should have died years earlier, before he’d had the chance to become what he did; but, a deeper part of himself mourns the loss of Ramsay like he had not mourned all the others. Theon is no longer the man he had been, and while Ramsay had stripped him of every ounce of pride and self-worth, he’d also taken the anger, the ignorance, the hunger for power and respect he had once breathed in day and night.

Theon is who he is because of Ramsay Bolton, and so he grieves the loss of his maker, his creator, even if he would never say so out loud. No, Asha would be furious, and he did not need to be reminded once again how useless he’d become to his family’s cause.

He stands up, the banner still clutched tightly in his hands, and walks towards where the horses were feeding. There are two torches placed in holders on the wooden posts there. Slowly, he raises the banner and it catches flame. He holds onto it as it burns and does not drop it until it is almost completely ablaze. He stomps out the flame before anything else can catch fire and then kicks the ashes into the horses’ stall to let it mix into the muck and hay. He turns and makes for the stairs, leaving the last remnants of the Bolton legacy below deck.

∞

Cersei Lannister strides through the hallway towards the chamber where her counsel awaits. The thought that they’ve been waiting for almost an hour for her arrival fills her not with remorse for her tardiness, but with an irrevocable satisfaction. There has never been a Queen’s Counsel in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, and they shall wait for her.

Inside, she finds Qyburn and his men seated. They all stand and bow as she enters and she takes her seat at the head of the table confidently, eyeing them all individually as she does so. There’s a moment of heavy silence broken only when Qyburn clears his throat and holds up a rolled parchment.

“We received this at dawn, My Lady.”

“What is it?” Cersei demands, her lip curling in distaste. She can tell from their faces it isn’t good news.

“Ramsay Bolton is dead, My Lady,” Qyburn informs her. Cersei blinks at him, unfazed. He clears his throat once more and continues, “Jon Snow has retaken Winterfell for the Starks with the help from Sansa Stark and the Arryns.” Cersei frowns at the mention of the red-haired girl she wishes she’d killed long ago. She has turned out to be much more of a nuisance than Cersei could have imagined.

“Also,” another man pipes in hesitantly. Her sharp eyes fall to him and he shifts uncomfortably. “It appears Petyr Baelish has been of assistance to the Stark girl…he’s there as we speak.”

“Littlefinger,” Cersei comments slowly, drawing out the name in disgust. “And how has our Littlefinger managed to accomplish this?”

“He is the one who got the Knights of the Vale to go to war for Jon Snow’s cause.”

There’s a hefty silence that speaks volumes. Cersei takes a heavy breath and stands from her spot to stare at the men.

“I want a price on Littlefinger’s head,” she says finally. “Fifty thousand gold dragons to whoever brings him to me.”

“My lady,” Qyburn begins hesitantly. “Westeros may not be able to-“

“Fifty thousand gold dragons,” Cersei says firmly. “And get me my brother. We have things to discuss.”

She leaves them there, the rage beneath her skin slowly bubbling to the surface.

∞

Meera stares out at the whiteness surrounding them, her gaze flicking to any movement she senses, even if it has always led to nothing. She hasn’t slept in such a long time, she fears she’s slowly going mad. She turns to look at Bran who is lost in fitful dreams. She doesn’t dare wake him, not unless it is for something important.

 _The images flash too quickly for Bran to truly make sense of them, but he tries to keep up. His mind is reeling from the revelation in the Tower with his father and Lyanna. The only answer seems to incredible, too impossible, to be true. That Ned Stark had_ lied _to the Seven Kingdoms…_

**_Brandon Stark._ **

_The vision stops and Bran is standing in the courtyard to Winterfell, but it is not the home he remembers. There is no one bustling around the courtyard, no voices from the kennels, no noise from within Winterfell’s walls. He turns and sees Ghost staring at him._

_“Ghost,” Bran says, but Ghost turns and starts walking towards the entrance to Winterfell. Bran follows in a daze, knowing that he must if he wants any sort of answer._

_Inside is so similar to the way he remembers it that he nearly cries for the comfort it brings. Ghost leads him through one of the back hallways, unknown to most who had not grown up here, and towards the place that once was his mother and father’s bed chambers. Ghost nudges the door open and then steps aside. Bran spares him a single glance before moving around him to enter the chamber._

_There is a blazing fire that lights up the whole room and Bran looks around before his eyes fall on the single figure under the blankets. Frowning, Bran moves towards the bed. With a start, the body rolls onto its side and the figure’s face is exposed._

_Bran’s steps falter at the sight of his brother, at_ Robb _, lying in the bed looking troubled while he sleeps._

**_The Young Wolf and the Prince Who Was Promised need you, Brandon._ **

With a gasp, Bran jolts out of sleep and Meera is right there next to him, soothing him and whispering that he is okay, even though they both know it is a lie.

“Winterfell,” Bran spits through shuddering breaths. “We need to go _now_.”

“How?” Meera asks. “You have no cart, no horse-“

“I don’t know!” Bran exclaims in frustration. “But I _need_ to get to Winterfell.”

∞

The girl with blonde hair and blue eyes moves elegantly through the crowds in the market. Her brilliant curls shine against the morning sun as she carries the buckets of fresh milk to the edge where she might be able to sell it.

Men look at her as she passes, examine her beauty and her grace, but no one stops the pretty girl as she walks to her post. A few children smile at her, stopping briefly in their game-playing. One girl, no older than four years or so, with red braids and freckles across her nose smiles shyly at her and the girl returns it, knowing that a friendly face is often hard to come by in these places.

She finally rests at the edge of the market square and sets down the buckets before pulling out small glass jars from her bag. She carefully pours milk from the buckets into the glass jars and seals them. When she has nearly two dozen jars ready, she kicks out a tall box and sets them atop it, ready to sell. Several people stop straight away, and she quickly receives the payment she desperately needs.

It takes another hour to sell all of the jars but when she is done, her coin purse sags nicely and she marches off with her empty buckets. When she gets to the edge of the Wandering Rivers, she leans down to wash out her buckets with the icy water. She pauses, taking in the current and wondering if the winds of winter have finally come.

Once the buckets are cleaned out, she stands and looks around. The people who had been walking around were now all out of sight. _Now or never_ , she thinks.

She carefully lowers the buckets one-by-one into the water and lets them fill before releasing them. They disappear under the water and she stands. Brushing her dripping hands on the edge of her skirt, she begins walking away from the bustling markets, instead following the river up the bay until she finds her things hidden beneath the crumbling rocks of an abandoned fort of some kind.

The bag of coins firmly in hand, she slings her bag of belongings around her shoulder and marches further into the trees by the edge of the river where a horse waits for her. Its tail flicks idly and she pulls an apple from her bag. The horse takes it hungrily and eats while she goes about wrapping a shawl around her head and shoulders before climbing up onto the horse.

She hopes that the raven got where it needed to go; Jon will hopefully understand it as the announcement it had been – Arya Stark is not dead, and she is taking her vengeance. If not, it isn’t of any worry to her. If they think the Stark girl is some ghost terrorizing a desperate city in need, then so be it. Walder Frey had been on the girl’s list for so long, it feels strange to take him off.

The girl takes off the mask of blonde curls and blue eyes and Arya Stark begins riding for the next town as fast as she can; Winterfell is waiting for her, after all.

∞

_In front of him is nothing but ice, rocks, and snow. The girl before him struggles through the snow while following in the wake of the giant and Bran’s cart._

_Jon aches with the weariness of days travelling without real rest, but the determination in his bones tells him that it will be worth it. It has to be done, and it_ will _be done._

 _They are so close, so_ agonizingly _close when the dead claw emerges from the ground to pull him down. Jon goes, a small cry leaving his mouth, as the icy bones wrap around the limb. Another hand grabs his other leg and he’s dragged backwards. The girl comes running for him, dropping her things in her haste._

_“Jojen!” She shrieks, grabbing him and attempting to pull him from the skeletal being’s grip._

_“Help them! No!” Bran yells to Hodor, who scurries around the cart to try and help. Jon holds onto the girl for dear life as his heart beats swiftly in fear._

_“Hold onto me!” The girl insists, but Jon is doing everything he can. He’s simply too tired after the journey. She finally pulls him from the dead thing’s grasp and they fall into a heap. They don’t have long to relax, however, because the thing claws its way up from below the ice to come for them. There are more running into the clearing, some grabbing onto Hodor while more rush for Jon and the girl. She pulls out a knife and lunges for the skeleton, but it is too swift and knocks her off balance. Jon fends it off with his own weapon, but he has little strength left._

_He tries to get up and help her several times, but she knows he’s not strong enough and pushes him away, fighting off the beasts by herself while Hodor fights off his own. Jon boils with rage, hating himself for being too weak to protect who he recognizes as this body’s own sister. He turns to see more beasts aiming straight for Bran and he cries out to the boy. Bran’s eyes are white, unseeing, and Jon desperately tries to get his attention._

_“Bran!” He yells. “Save yourself! Now!”_

_As he watches the thing going for Bran, a knife suddenly plunges into his stomach again, and again, and again, leaving him shaking with the searing pain. The girl charges with her ax and takes out the beast holding the knife, but it’s too late. The knife has already done enough damage and Jon tries to breathe but knows it’s futile._

_There is suddenly an explosion as the girl cradles him to her chest. Jon looks to see a young girl, something not human, looking earnestly at them all._

_“Come with me, Brandon Stark,” She says. The girl is shaking, trying to help Jon, but the un-human girl tells her, “He is lost. Come with me, or die with him.”_

_Jon looks up at the girl, slowly falling into shock, and says, “Go with them.” She takes in gasping breaths and Jon nods, telling her it’s okay. She leans forward and drags the knife out of the dead thing’s skull and kisses his forehead. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she draws the knife across his throat._

Jon is unsettled when he wakes up, but not for the reason he thought he’d be. The sun is up, its rays dancing through the window and Robb is just pulling his boots on. He smiles over at Jon.

“You slept like the dead last night,” he jokes. “No dreams?”

“I dreamt,” Jon tells him with a shake of his head. Robb sighs and moves towards him, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to him.

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Jon shakes his head. “I was with Bran, though. There were…wights, they were attacking. I think…” Jon suddenly sits up, staring in horror at his brother.

“I think they’re beyond the Wall.”

“What?” Robb demands. “Why would they go beyond the Wall?”

“I don’t know!” Jon shakes his head again. “But…it has to be the reason why he didn’t find me that night at Craster’s Keep. I thought…after the last dream, I thought I should have found him if he’d been there. But Robb, if he’s beyond the Wall, he’s in danger.”

“He’s been in danger for a long time, Jon.” Robb tells him sadly, his palm cupping his brother’s face gently.

“I know,” Jon sighs and rubs tiredly at his face. Despite the sleep, he feels like dead weight. Another thought slowly hits him.

“Why now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the White Walkers have been out there for years. Why have they decided to wage war _now_?”

“I don’t know.” Robb frowns. “Maybe they know something we don’t.”

Jon thinks about this and finds it creates a deep dread in his stomach. “Gods, I hope not.”

“Me too,” Robb nods.

A little while later, they both enter the courtyard among a flurry of activity. Some of the Wildlings are sparring off to the side, several on the outskirts crying out support as the men go at each other.

“Your Grace!” Someone calls out and it takes a nudge from Robb for Jon to realize they are speaking to _him_.

“Yes?” Jon turns to see Vylla Cerwyn, Lord Cerwyn’s younger sister, coming towards him. Her brown hair is pulled tightly around her head in braids and her dark eyes appear solemn. Jon remembers her to be about ten and four, possibly a little younger. Jon nods his head to her.

“There was an accident in one of the lords’ camps last night. Two drunks fought over…something, and I was told to find you to mediate the situation.”

From beside him, Jon hears Robb chuckle softly. Knowing the lot of lords within and around Winterfell, it is very likely the accident was caused by fools too drunk to see any semblance of sense.

“I’ll go,” Robb tells him softly, gripping his shoulder as he passes to follow Lady Cerwyn to the camp where the men are.

“Jon,” Davos says, coming towards him with another man. Jon nods to him and then looks at the man following. He’s tall and broad in the chest, with dark blond hair on his head and face. He wears the sigil of the crannogmen. “This is Lord Howland Reed. He says he knew your father quite well.”

Jon blinks in surprise and quickly offers his hand. The man doesn’t take it; he instead drops down to a knee and bows his head. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that.

“Lord Reed,” Jon says and Howland rises slowly to his feet once more.

“Your Grace,” he greets Jon. Jon smiles broadly at him.

“My father talked of you often, always telling stories about your days together during Robert’s Rebellion.”

“Your father was quite the man,” Howland agrees with a small smile. “I can see he raised you well.”

“You should see Robb,” Jon says with a shake of his head. “He’s truly Ned Stark’s son.”

“You both turned out better than expected, and the bar was very high to begin with.” Davos leads the two men to a nearby row of crates to sit down at. “Unfortunately, my House was unable to fight for yours this time. With the Freys and the Boltons, it was too dangerous for me to bring my men farther North to meet you. I shall regret that for the rest of my days.”

“It is no matter, Lord Reed,” Jon tells him firmly. “We made it through and defeated the Boltons. You protected your home, which is what my father himself would have done. You have not dishonored my family.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Howland bows his head to him.

“Please, call me Jon. I hate the ‘Your Grace’ shit.” Howland and Davos both laugh at this.

“Well, _Jon_ , my men are completely at your service. We shall fight with House Stark for as long as you need us.”

“I thank you, Lord Reed.”

“If you are calling yourself Jon, please call me Howland.”

“Of course,” Jon smiles at him.

“From word further South, Cersei Lannister has named herself Queen of Westeros,” Howland comments dryly.

“It seems so,”

“But I hear that’s the least of our worries.” He leans closer to say, more quietly, “it’s true, then? The White Walkers are real?”

“They are,” Jon nods seriously.

“I have some two thousand fighting men under me.”

“More than some have, Lord – Howland. I thank you for your support.” Jon sighs and looks at Davos. “Can you sort out a place for them to pitch camp?”

“Of course,” Davos nods and motions for Lord Reed to follow him. Jon watches them go before turning to walk towards the rookery to find a raven.

Inside the high tower, Jon pulls out a piece of parchment from the pocket of his breaches. He unrolls it to reread the words inside.

_I dream each night of dying men, women, and children. Ones who have already died many years passed. What is happening to me?_

_\- Jon Snow_

With a shaky breath, he rolls the parchment back up and ties it to the ankle of one of the ravens. The dark bird watches him carefully as he knots the letter tightly. It hops once, twice, then a third time until its claw can wrap around the rolled paper.

“Take it to the Red Priestess,” Jon nods to it and it takes off out the window in flight.

 


	7. Moving Pieces

Robb watches his brother from his seat behind the head table. Jon is standing before him, his hands braced on the wooden table, looking in concern down at little Lyanna Mormont. The lady herself wears her permanent scowl of “unimpressed” as she considers the king before her.

“I need to know if I should be returning for the last of my people and family’s things before the war begins.” She tells Jon seriously. “If Bear Island is about to be taken –“

“The White Walkers haven’t yet crossed the Wall, Lady Mormont. They _can’t_ –“

“And yet, your priestess told us that they would come, and indeed they are building an army. So I am _asking_ you, Your Grace, if I should be sending for the rest of my people.”

The young girl’s stare pierces Jon and Robb watches him thoroughly. It is so easy to see the differences between himself and his brother. Where Robb was quick to act, sometimes unwisely, Jon seems to take great pains to analyze each decision. He’s always been the introspective type; Robb had always had a certain energy within him that forced him forward. It’s how they had always balanced each other out. Where Robb was swift, Jon was thoughtful, and where Jon was careful, Robb was determined.

“Send for them,” Jon says, surprising Robb. Lady Mormont, likewise, seems startled by Jon’s rather unintentional confirmation of what they all fear: the White Walkers and wights will come, and they intend to conquer.

She nods once and turns on her heel, motioning for her maester and counsel to follow her out. Robb smiles at the sight of the grown men falling over themselves to do as the small girl bids. Jon sighs and sits back down, just in time for Luka, a Wildling boy of ten and six, to come forward.

“Your Grace, there’s a problem that’s arisen within the Wildling camp. If you could just take a look -“

“No.” Jon shakes his head and Robb’s eyes snap to study his brother’s face. He looks exhausted, the dreams and battle plans and the everyday dealings have taken their tole and Robb feels for him, especially considering the lateness of the hour. “Davos,”

“Yes,” Davos steps forward quickly and Robb feels a surge of affection for the man’s fatherly manner; he’s always ready to help Jon in any way he can.

“Can you and the boy see to the issue and come back to me if it’s something that needs further action?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Davos nods and Luka walks with him towards the exit. With a sigh, Jon looks at Robb. Robb nods to him and then stands.

“Everyone else who remains in need of counsel with the king are asked to seek out current Master-at-Arms Endrew for further instruction, or wait until a later time.”

There’s a bit of grumbling at this, but Robb ignores it in favor of moving with his brother to leave the hall. They walk through the slow-falling snow to the doors of Winterfell and make their way towards their bed chamber. Out of sight of the others, Jon leans heavily into Robb’s side with a soft groan.

“I hate this,” he mumbles as Robb slings his arm over his shoulder. Robb chuckles and presses a kiss into his brother’s hair. Once inside their bed chambers, Robb pulls off his cloak and toes out of his boots before going to work at undressing Jon.

“I can undress myself,” Jon says, trying to bat Robb’s hands away, but Robb scoffs.

“Hush, let me help you,” he says insistently, grabbing Jon’s wrists and putting his arms at his sides. He then continues stripping Jon until he’s standing in nothing but his undershirt and breeches.

“All right,” Jon says, yanking Robb back to his feet and kissing him harshly. “My turn,” he slides his hands up Robb’s tunic and Robb grins into the kiss, allowing himself to be pushed backwards into the soft bed. Jon climbs atop him and goes to work unlacing his breeches, helping him shed them and then tugging off both of their shirts.

“You were staring,” Jon says, kissing Robb breathlessly and then leaning back to smile down at him.

“Of course I was,” Robb laughs. “It’s new, seeing you being all lordly and such.”

“A good new?” Jon bites his lip, looking uncertain. Robb slides his hand gently around his brother’s neck and into his dark curls, his smile softening.

“The very best,” Robb promises, pulling him down until their lips meet, much sweeter and earnest than the kisses before. Jon falls into Robb, allowing the kisses to tease and trail, until finally Robb shoves him back into the mattress and grabs for the oil.

The first touch of Robb’s fingers to his sensitive hole only serves to key Jon up, making him desperate to feel Robb. He kisses him deeply, trying to say some of it without words, and he thinks he gets the message through when finally, Robb slicks himself up and pushes into his heat. Jon moans, his nails digging into the flesh on his brother’s back, urging Robb further into him. Robb’s lips move across Jon’s neck and shoulder as he rocks into him, over and over, a relentless rhythm that sets Jon’s skin on fire.

Robb reaches between them, stroking lightly across Jon’s cock as his pace quickens slightly, feeling Jon shudder at the stimulation. Robb gets a firmer grip and starts jerking his hand to the same rhythm he uses to pound into Jon. Jon’s back arches, his mouth gasping open as Robb slams into him, hitting that perfect spot at the same time he flicks his wrist and Jon is coming across both of their stomachs. Jon’s vision whites for a moment as Robb continues hitting that spot as he brings himself to his own release. He spills his seed while maintaining a shaky hold on Jon, before his hips stutter and he comes to rest above Jon, supported on his forearms and grinning down at his brother while they both pant for breath.

“Gods, I love you,” Robb tells him breathlessly, kissing him once and then again. Jon laughs shakily as Robb slides out of him and rolls to the side, dragging Jon with him until Jon is lying half on top of him.

“We need to clean up,” Jon tells him, smiling as he runs his fingers through the sweat at Robb’s temples.

“You aren’t going to say it back?” Robb demands, mock-pouting at him. Jon laughs again and leans forward to capture his lips in a gentle kiss, slow and sweet.

“I have loved you forever, Robb,” Jon tells him with a soft smile. “And I will love you until I die.”

“Longer,” Robb grins at him sharply. “Even death cannot keep the Stark boys from one another, remember?”

“Of course,” Jon pushes away from him and grabs for a cloth off to the side of the bed. He wipes at the mess on his stomach and sliding down his inner thighs before gently cleaning the mess on Robb. When he’s done, he drops the cloth and Robb’s fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling him back down into the bed. Robb kisses his temple.

“Tell me who you are, Jon Stark,” Robb murmurs, his lips brushing Jon’s skin.

“Who am I?” Jon laughs breathily, looking at his brother who quickly leans down for a kiss that Jon willingly gives.

“Yes,” Robb says softly. “You know of what I have done: the battles against Tywin Lannister, my marriage to Talisa, how mother let Jaime Lannister go and we fought… _gods_ , how I was angry. You know of the betrayal of the Freys and the Boltons. I know you spent time with the Wildlings, considered staying there for a girl for a moment, that you became Lord Commander. That you died and came back, just as me. But who _are_ you, Jon? For certainly you aren’t the boy who left for the Wall the same as I am not the boy who went off to war.”

“Of course,” Jon sighs and stretches, his shoulder brushing Robb’s as he turns. “I’m simply me. I found people who weren’t repulsed by my bastard status. I met some men that could have rivalled father in honor and duty, and I met men who should have been shoved from the Wall a long time ago.” Robb laughs at this. “I met Samwell Tarly, a large boy with a huge heart, and he’s probably the only one out of all of us who deserves the bloody Iron Throne. As for me…I thought I had come back wrong, when the woman brought me back.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I didn’t want to go on any longer. Everything just seemed so dark and wrong. Even when Sansa came back, the first family I’d seen in _years_ , I still couldn’t seem to find the strength to do what needed to be done. Sansa was the one who pushed the fight to get Winterfell back.” Jon rolls to lay his chin on Robb’s stomach, looking up at him through his long lashes. “I wanted no part of it.”

“And now?” Robb questions slowly, his fingers carding through Jon’s curls.

“You came back,” Jon says softly. “I told you before; you’re the only one I couldn’t live without, Robb. Everything after you – everything _without_ you – it felt wrong. And coming back to life felt like I had been so close to getting back to you, but being dragged away.”

“You’re such a sap, Jon.” Robb chuckles lightly, his eyes fond. Jon shrugs, leaning into Robb’s hand in his hair.

“Thank you,” Jon says after a moment of simply breathing contently.

“For what?” Robb frowns at him.

“Being here,” Jon shrugs. “Supporting me. I know it must be hard – “

“Hey, we’ve discussed this.” Robb tells him sternly, grabbing onto his arms and pulling him up towards him. “I am here and I am _staying_. You can’t get rid of me now, Sn – _Stark_.” Robb’s wolfish grin comes back as he flips onto his side to gaze at him. Jon feels his cheeks flush slightly at the attention, but he forces himself to hold Robb’s eyes.

“I never could shake you off,” Jon replies simply, his fingers moving to lightly trace along Robb’s jaw. Robb hums, closing his eyes to Jon’s touch and looking like a fallen angel in his naked, serene calmness.

“I love you,” Jon tells him, needing to say it.

“And I, you,” Robb says, reaching up without opening his eyes and taking hold of Jon’s wrist to pull him closer until they’re tangled together beneath the furs.

∞

_He’s dozing lightly against the soft satin sheets, his dark curls cascading all around him. There’s a tenseness in his muscles, though, a wariness that not even blissful sleep can take away. Softly, Jon hears footsteps entering the room and intentionally relaxes, aware that he is performing a show._

_“Tywin?” The voice, female and breathless, mumbles softly. “My lion?”_

_Looking up, Jon blinks away the blurry vision to see Tyrion Lannister staring at him in shock and despair. Jon knows that one of them needs to make a move, because this is_ very _bad, and so he reaches quickly for the knife used for cutting the food on the platter. Tyrion launches himself onto the bed, wrestling the knife in Jon’s grip. Tyrion finally jerks his arm to the side and the knife flies off the edge of the bed. Jon returns his arm with a smack to Tyrion’s face, knocking him off balance before moving to wrap his hand around Tyrion’s throat._

_They struggle once more, both trying to get the upper hand, and Jon knows he’s going to lose. Tyrion grabs the necklace at his throat and yanks him forward. Jon shoves him forward, but Tyrion holds tight to the chain around his neck and pulls harshly, the body Jon inhabits’ head hanging off the edge of the bed while Tyrion jerks on the chain._

_He struggles desperately, trying to wiggle out of the dwarf’s grip, but it’s no use. Slowly, he cannot fight it anymore and his vision begins to blur –_

_He blinks and opens his eyes to a wholly different scene. He’s sitting on a chamber pot, going about his business, when the door is shoved open. Tyrion Lannister stands in the doorway, a crossbow held in his arms pointed directly at Jon._

_“Tyrion,” Jon says, this body’s voice low and calm. “Put down the crossbow.”_

_Tyrion just stares at him, not moving or saying anything._

_“Who released you?” Jon demands. “Ah, your brother, I expect. He always had a soft spot for you. Come, we’ll go and talk in my chambers.” He makes a move to stand, but Tyrion simply adjusts his stance, keeping the crossbow firmly pointed at Jon’s chest, the golden lion at its point gleaming in the firelight._

_“Is this how you want to speak to me, hmm?” Jon demands. “Shaming your father has always given you pleasure –“_

_“All my life, you’ve wanted me dead,” Tyrion cuts him off._

_Jon nods and says, “Yes. But you refused to die. I respect that, even_ admire _it. You fight for what’s yours. I’d never let them execute you, is that what you fear? I’ll never let Illyn Payne take your head. You’re a Lannister, you’re my son.”_

 _Jon can sense the calculation inside the body he inhabits._ Say what he wants to hear, buy yourself some time, because he might be bluffing, but you’re the one who will end up with an arrow sticking out of you.

_“I loved her.” Tyrion says instead of answering anything Jon had said before. Something like realization flickers inside._

_“Who?”_

_“Shae,” Tyrion says deliberately._

_“Oh, Tyrion,” Jon says, disappointed. “Put down that crossbow-“_

_“I murdered her. With my own hands.”_

_“Doesn’t matter.”_

_“Doesn’t…matter…” Tyrion replies slowly._

_“She was a whore,” Jon tells him plainly. Tyrion readjusts the crossbow again, having let it droop. Jon its up straighter._

_“Say that word again –“_

_“And what?” Jon demands. “You’ll kill your own father in the privy? No, you’re my son. Now, enough of this nonsense.”_

_“I_ am _your son,” Tyrion says carefully, “And you sentenced me to die. You_ knew _I didn’t poison Joffrey, but you sentenced me all the same. Why?”_

_“Enough, we’ll go back to my chambers and speak with some dignity.”_

_“I can’t go back in there. She’s in there.”_

_“What, you’re afraid of a dead whore?” The arrow shoots forward and strikes Jon in the abdomen, knocking him backwards into the stone wall with a grunt of pain. Tyrion moves to reload the crossbow while Jon stares down at the arrow in his stomach._

_“You shot me.” Jon spits out while Tyrion resets the crossbow. “You’re no son of mine!”_

_“I am your son. I’ve_ always _been your son.” Tyrion shoots again and the arrow hits Jon in the chest, the agony almost unbearable. Jon groans as Tyrion turns and walks out, leaving him to gasp for breath through the ache. He isn’t sure how long he sits there, bleeding out, his breathing slowly growing weaker, and finally he slumps forward with one last huff of air –_

Jon’s eyes open to the first hints of morning light and he sighs, rubbing tiredly at his face. He tries to remember Tyrion Lannister – what he knew about the man, what he had always wondered. He suspects Tywin Lannister had deserved everything he got; the man was known for being cruel and cunning. The girl Tyrion had killed, though…Jon doesn’t know if he _wants_ to know more about what had happened with her.

“Jon?” Robb mumbles, turning in his sleep to search him out with his hand, eyes not yet open. Jon smiles fondly at his brother and scoots closer, tucking himself into Robb’s side.

“Dreams?” Robb murmurs, his fingers tangling in Jon’s curls as he attempts to wake up. Jon opens his mouth, hesitates, then says,

“Yes, but it wasn’t so bad, this time.” A lie, but for the smile Robb gives him, he thinks it might be worth it.

∞

Brienne suggests they stay the night at an inn and Sansa readily agrees. After a few days of riding, she’s grown weary of seeing the exact same sights, day after day. Brienne secures them a night with two rooms and the innkeeper tells them to take a seat, that she will bring them out some food.

Brienne makes sure Sansa is tucked into the corner while she remains seated to her left, facing the door. The innkeeper brings out two bowls of wonderful-smelling soup. Sansa smiles thankfully at her and the woman leaves them be.

They are halfway through their soup when a woman enters. She has long, dark red hair knotted together on top of her head, her skin pale and her eyes chestnut brown. She wears a long, black cloak with no sigil or house marking on it, and she walks confidently to the innkeeper with a wide smile on her face. Sansa and Brienne both watch her as she goes.

“I need a room for the night,” the woman says to the innkeeper.

“You’re lucky it’s a slow night, m’Lady,” the innkeeper tells her. “We have a single room left.”

The woman smiles and pulls out a small, dark green pouch from her pocket. She extracts a few coins for the innkeeper. The innkeeper asks if she’s in need of any supper, but the woman declines.

“I would ask for some hay to feed my horse, though.”

“Ah, I’ll have me boy Josef take care of ‘im. Don’t you mind that.”

“Thank you,” the woman nods her head and turns for the stairs up to her room, but stops short when her dark eyes land on Sansa and Brienne. They stare at one another for a moment before the woman quickly rushes up the stairs.

“What do you think that was about?” Sansa asks Brienne. Brienne shakes her head with a frown, her eyes still on where the woman had disappeared to. Standing, Brienne collects both her and Sansa’s now-empty bowls and brings them back to the innkeeper. She then situates herself in front of Sansa and leads them both up the stairs, ready for anything that might occur.

Brienne walks down the hall and opens the door to the first room. She steps inside to check it and finds the woman is seated on the bed. Brienne reaches for her sword and the woman raises a hand to stop her, standing quickly.

“Who are you?” Brienne demands. Sansa steps into the room, looking from behind Brienne.

“I will tell you, but please, close the door.” Brienne and Sansa share a look and then Sansa carefully shuts the door behind her. They turn back to the woman to watch as she unties her cloak and lays it on the bed. She then brings her hands to her face and, horrifyingly, begins to peel the skin there –

Only to reveal the face of Arya Stark. Sansa’s jaw drops in realization as Arya’s face, grown up and smiling lopsidedly, appears in brilliant color.

“Hello, sister,” Arya greets Sansa. She looks up at Brienne, “And you, Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

“Arya...” Sansa steps forward slowly, cautiously, and Arya nods her head. Sansa rushes forward, then, and grips her sister in a tight hug, feeling overwhelmed with how much she has desperately missed her youngest sister.

“What…what is that?” She points to the face clutched in Arya’s hand and Arya smiles grimly.

“That’s a story for a different time. I was on my way to Winterfell!”

“I cannot believe this,” Brienne murmurs, staring between the two women.

“Why are _you_ here?” Arya asks her sister.

“We’re going to the Iron Islands,” Sansa tells Arya, still clutching her tightly. Arya pulls away, though, to look up at her in confusion.

“But…why?”

“There’s so much to tell you about!” Sansa tells Arya quickly. Brienne watches them and then steps forward slowly.

“My ladies, I’m going to retire to my room while you get reacquainted. I will be just next door.”

Sansa and Arya watch as she leaves and then simultaneously move to get out of their traveling clothes. Sansa wants to ask about the strange mask Arya has with her again, but she suspects she will find out soon enough. They are both in their smallclothes when they climb into the bed together, curling together under the warm blankets, like they had done when they were children, before Arya and Sansa had grown apart.

“Tell me everything,” Arya demands, her long limbs so familiar as they shuffle around to find a comfortable position.

“ _Gods_ , there’s so much to tell. But you first, what _happened_ to you? Everyone has thought you were dead –“

“I was at the beheading.” Arya frowns up at the ceiling. “Yoren, the man from the Night’s Watch, came to ask for boys to bring to the Wall. He ran with me while everyone was distracted by…by father. He cut my hair and told me to act as a boy, that he was taking boys to the Wall and that he would bring me to Winterfell.”

“I’m so glad you escaped,” Sansa murmurs, taking her sister’s small, calloused hand in her own. Arya’s skin is much tanner than hers, nails bitten away and muscles strained. Whatever she had been doing involved more physical strength than Sansa herself had.

“Me, too, though I wish we had stayed together.”

“Me, too,” Sansa agrees in a whisper.

Arya continues, “There was trouble with some of the boys going to the Wall, but I’ve been rather good at handling myself.”

“You always were,” Sansa smiles.

“Some of the Kingsguard came, and I thought they were looking for me. But they were looking for another boy…Gendry, his name was. I never got a clear answer why they were looking for him – I don’t even know if _he_ really knew. But I think he was one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards. He said Jon Arryn had gone looking for him, and our father.”

“Gendry,” Sansa repeats the name, trying it out.

“Yeah,” Arya’s face turns sad. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. I hope one day I will.”

“What happened when the Kingsguard came?”

“Nothing, Yoren told them they had no authority there and they went to get the proper request, I suppose? But when they came back, they killed Yoren and a bunch of others. We were taken by Tywin Lannister’s men to Harrenhal.”

“Tywin Lannister?” Sansa gasps in shock, her eyes widening.

“Yes,” Arya nods. “At first, we didn’t know it was his men. They were of a lesser house, but he oversaw it. They were…they were torturing people for information. The Mountain and Lannister men. Tywin Lannister showed up a few days later and yelled at them about how they were wasting valuable manpower.

“He realized I was a girl and took me as a cupbearer. I was around while he was dealing with the war against Robb… _gods_ , Robb.”

“Arya,” Sansa gasps again, realizing Arya didn’t _know_.

“I know, it’s hard to talk about him when he’s –“

“Robb is _alive_ , Arya!” Sansa sits up straight and smiles down at her sister.

“What?” Arya sits up as well, her hair sticking to her face in an endearing way. Sansa brushes the hair away and nods eagerly.

“That’s partially why Brienne and I are going to Pyke. The gods brought Robb back to help Jon win the war against the White Walkers.”

“White Walkers?” Arya’s face screws up in confusion. “White Walkers aren’t _real_.”

“They are,” Sansa tells her, suddenly serious. “Arya, they’ve killed a lot of people and they’re going to come through the Wall at some point. That’s why Brienne and I are riding for Pyke. We need an army much bigger than we have right now.”

“And you’re going to the _Greyjoys_ to get it?” Arya demands. “After all that’s happened, you think that Balon Greyjoy –“

“Things are different now, Arya.” Sansa cuts her off, reminding Arya that Sansa had grown up, too, in ways Arya had thought she would never. “I cannot imagine what you have gone through in the past years, but I’ve been right at the center of it. Everything that’s happened…gods, but it’s awful to even speak about. I lived through this war just like everyone else.”

“I saw Robb’s body, though, Sansa,” Arya remarks, drawing them back to the earlier conversation. “They sewed Grey Wind to his body and –“

“He’s back, Arya, I swear it. Brienne and I have both seen him, Jon has seen him, and everyone currently residing at Winterfell.”

“Jon took it back,” Arya says, a grin forming on her face. “I heard about it farther south. Everyone must know by now.”

“It isn’t near over yet,” Sansa reminds her. “But, please, continue, tell me what happened. Just know that Robb isn’t dead.”

“Bran and Rickon?” Arya asks hesitantly. Sansa sighs, her eyes going sad.

“Rickon is dead; he was killed by Ramsay Bolton when we took back Winterfell. Bran is alive as far as we know, but we don’t know where he is. He disappeared, just like you.”

“Seven hells,” Arya mutters, lying back down with a huff. After a moment, Sansa lies back down as well. “Where was I? Right, Tywin Lannister was waging war against Robb, and he was angry because Robb was beating him, and Robb was only a boy. I would speak with him occasionally, and he seemed to like me. He knew I was from a northern family of noble status, but he thought it was a lesser house.

“The only time I truly worried about what would happen is when Petyr Baelish came to see Tywin Lannister.” At the mention of Littlefinger, Sansa tenses and her face darkens, though Arya doesn’t see it. “But I managed to keep his gaze away from me and he never knew.”

“How did you get away?”

“There was a man taken with us to Harrenhal, meant to go to the Wall. His name was Jaqen. He told me a little while after I started being Tywin’s cupbearer that since I had saved his life the night the Lannister men came and took us all and had saved the two men with him, that he owed me a debt. He said to give him three names, and he would kill them for me.”

“He…what?” Sansa turns her head to stare at Arya incredulously.

“I thought he was mad.” Arya laughs. “So, I decided to test him. I told him to kill the man who had been torturing people for the Mountain when we first arrived at Harrenhal. And he did. After that, one of Tywin’s men caught me sneaking away with a note written by Tywin about Robb, and I wanted to _send it_ to Robb. The guard went to tell Tywin that I had taken it and I told Jaqen to kill him.”

“ _Gods_ , Arya,”

“I know! I didn’t know what to do. I knew I needed to leave, especially after Tywin left to fight Robb and I was left with the Mountain. I tried to get Jaqen to kill Tywin before he left, but I couldn’t find him in time. So I gave Jaqen his own name and told him I’d only take it back if he helped me escape, which he did.”

“Where did you go?” Sansa asks, and Arya continues her story about leaving with Gendry and some boy named Hot Pie, about being taken by the Brotherhood Without Banners. She told her all about Gendry being taken away and being found by Sandor Clegane who decided to ransom her to Robb.

“You never made it to mother and Robb?”

“I did,” Arya pauses, looking pained. “We got there the night Uncle Edmure married the Frey girl. I was there when the killing started. I saw them kill Grey Wind, and then I saw them bring Robb outside with the wolf head on his body, and Sandor grabbed me and ran before anyone could catch me.”

“Arya,” Sansa says softly, clutching her sister’s hand in her own. Arya squeezes back.

“After that, the Hound wanted to sell me to Aunt Lysa, but we found out she’d died three _days_ before we got there!”

“You…” Sansa gapes at her. “Arya, _I_ was at Aunt Lysa’s!”

“You what?” Arya blinks at her.

“I was there! Aunt Lysa married Petyr Baelish and I was there, under Aunt Lysa’s protection! She went insane and threatened to kill me. Littlefinger killed her before she could do anything.”

“I laughed, when they told me she was dead.” Arya tells her bluntly. Sansa frowns.

“What? Why?”

“Because every time I would get my hopes up that things were going my way, it all went to hells. The Hound was angry, too, because he kept trying to get rid of me and instead my family kept turning up dead.”

“We could have been reunited,” Sansa says sadly.

“The Hound was trying to figure out what to do next when Brienne showed up and fought with him. At that point, I didn’t see the difference in going with her or staying with him. I couldn’t trust her, and I was tired over getting my hopes up, so I decided when Brienne left him for dead, I was going to the one place I _knew_ that I could.”

“Where?”

“To Jon, because I knew he’d help me no matter what.” The way she sounds so sure fills Sansa with more guilt over not trusting Jon completely. Though he had forgiven her, she knows that she will never really make up for it. He nearly _died_ because she had lied to him.

“But you never went to the Wall,” Sansa murmurs.

“No, because the ship wasn’t going there. It was going to Braavos, where Jaqen H'ghar had told me to find him. So, I went to Braavos.” She then goes into an explanation of the Faceless Men and the Many-Faced God, about the horrendous training and violence she had been a part of. She explains about the list of names she had kept all these years, and about taking her chance to kill Trant, about going blind and learning to fight anyways. She then explains about not being willing to kill someone without a reason and being stabbed nearly to death for her disobedience.

“And that’s when I left, because I knew that I would either die or have to kill – I didn’t want to do either, really. I wanted to kill the people on my list, and nothing more.”

“And now you’re coming home.”

“And now I’m coming home. Though, if you’ll have me, I’d come with you to Pyke.”

“Of course!” Sansa hugs her tightly before launching into her own story of Joffrey and Loras and Tyrion and Cersei and everything in between. Of Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn and Ramsay Bolton and Theon Greyjoy. She explains the war to get Winterfell back and Robb’s resurrection and everything she’s learned about the White Walkers and the Dark Night that was coming.

They talk until they’re so tired they can no longer keep their eyes open. When Brienne enters the next morning, they are curled around each other like little wolf cubs, sisters having finally been reunited.

∞

A small Wildling girl comes scampering into the great hall in a flurry of fiery red hair and pale skin. Her little boots stomp across the stone floor between the rows of men breaking their fasts, her hand clutched around a small scroll. A few people turn to smile fondly at the small girl, no older than five years at the most, who makes her way straight for the head table where Jon is eating with Robb, Davos, and a few other Wildling men.

“Your Grace!” The small girl exclaims, coming to his elbow and grinning toothily up at him. Jon smiles down at her and she holds the scroll up for him.

“Thank you,” Jon says, offering her a piece of sausage from his plate. The little girl takes it greedily and rushes off, Jon laughing as she does. He looks down at the scroll in his hand and his smile slowly fades. He looks at the men at the table.

“Excuse me,” he says, standing, “I’ll be right back.”

Robb sends him a curious look, but Jon simply strides out of the hall and makes his way to his father’s old study. Inside, he closes the door and takes a deep breath before unrolling the letter.

_My King,_

_The dreams mean that the pieces of this puzzle finally are falling into place. It will not be easy, and you will need help. The Lord of Light is telling you something, Jon. Let me help you._

There is no signature on the letter, but Jon knows exactly who it is from. The letter had come much quicker than he thought it would, meaning Melisandre had not gone very far if the raven had already left and returned. Frowning at the letter, he tries to figure out her confusing mess of an answer.

 _Pieces falling into place_ , Jon thinks. Perhaps she’s suggesting that they all are leading to some deeper meaning. Some message he cannot see yet. He should write her back; he should ask her to return and tell Davos that what has happened is in the past. The woman is not who she was.

Before he can do anything about the letter, he hears shouting from out in the yard and he looks out the window to see that some of the Wildling men are fighting some of Glovers’ men. It appears to be practice, but a large crowd has gathered around.

With a sigh, Jon heaves himself up and tucks the letter from Melisandre into one of the drawers in his father’s heavy desk. He then makes his way towards the practice area to make sure no one is killed before the real war even begins.

∞

The ships are ready to set sail. Theon helps tie up the final mast when he sees Asha walking purposefully towards him, her face pale. Theon hands off the rope to the man next to him and steps towards her, ready to serve.

“Brother,” Asha says, seeming not at all her usual, gruff self.

“What is it?” Theon asks her, his voice rough from disuse over the past week while they’d been getting the final plans secured with Daenerys Targaryen’s fighting fleet. Theon had tried counting the ships at the young woman’s back, but he’d lost count after one hundred and twenty.

“Lady – _Queen_ Targaryen…she received a raven from someone supporting her claim to the throne in the North.” Asha hesitates. “Robb Stark is…alive.”

Theon stiffens, staring at his sister with a blank face as he tries to foresee what sort of cruel joke his sister thinks she is playing. He had thought they were past the taunts and fighting, the constant beating down relationship they had always shared before Theon upheld her claim to the Salt Throne.

“Theon,” Asha snaps, tugging him out of his thoughts. “Did you hear me?”

“I – yes. I was trying to decide why you would choose to play this game with me.” Theon tells her honestly. Asha’s eyes soften slightly, obviously realizing her brother’s inner turmoil.

“I’m not _playing_ with you, Theon,” she grips his shoulders painfully. “Robb Stark is alive and at Winterfell as we speak, as is Jon Snow and Sansa Stark.”

“H-How?” Theon asks, his voice soft and frightened. How is it possible? He knows Ramsay had not lied; Robb Stark was killed at his uncle’s wedding with his mother and bride and unborn child.

“I don’t know, but several lords in the North have vouched for this news. Robb Stark is _alive_.”

Theon feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders at the same time he feels like the floor has been shifted under his feet. Robb Stark being alive means Theon hadn’t completely fucked up his entire life…but Robb Stark being alive meant that Theon was not free to try and live as a real person again. It had been one thing for Sansa Stark to have forgiven him, but a wholly other matter to know Robb thought him the worst sort of traitor.

“Theon, this is important,” Asha tells him sternly, once again regaining his attention.

“What?”

“We need to change course; we need to sail for the North and get to Winterfell.”

“I – You – What?” Theon’s head was spinning. _What in the seven hells was she on about?_

“Theon, we’re talking about the _Starks_. If we go to them, they will help us get Pyke Island back from Uncle Euron –“

“Asha, I _betrayed_ the Starks, and Daenerys Targaryen has already promised to help us –“

“The Starks have something that Daenerys Targaryen _doesn’t_.”

“What’s that?” Theon demands, slightly hysterical.

“Robb Stark is alive because whatever god has willed it so, Theon. The gods are fighting for Winterfell. If we have a chance, we have to take it.”

“Asha, you aren’t making any sense –“

“You said Sansa Stark had forgiven you. You did not kill Bran and Rickon Stark, and you did not send Roose Bolton to kill Robb Stark. Robb won many battles _without_ your help, Theon, meaning you didn’t cost him a battle by coming home. Theon, we can rebuild an alliance there, where we have leverage, or we can stay here as just another cog in the Targaryen army. Besides, the Starks have more reason to help us get the Salt Throne than the Targaryen girl. Theon, if the gods are behind the Starks, I think we bloody should be, too.”

“The Drowned God –“

“Who gives a bloody _fuck_ about the Drowned God, Theon?” Asha shakes him roughly. “Listen to me, you need to ride for Winterfell before we leave, and I will follow.”

“Asha –“

“ _Please_ , Theon,” Asha snaps in exasperation. “You said you trusted me; you wanted me to be queen of the Iron Islands.” Theon nods, his eyes trying to focus on her. “Then _listen_ to me, Theon. Take one of those horses and food to last you until you get to Winterfell. Ride as far and as fast as you can.”

“We promised Daenerys –“

“I will handle it Theon. _Go._ ”

Theon wants to argue more; he wants to shout at Asha that she’s being reckless and stupid. He knows that Daenerys Targaryen will not be satisfied with whatever reason Asha gives her for backing out. If their fleets leave, she could wage war on them all. Her dragons could destroy Pyke and everything on it.

But a small part of Theon wants to get on a horse and do as she says. A physical pull, begging him to go back to Winterfell, his lost home, where _Robb Stark_ is, alive and fighting.

He should question Asha’s decisions, but instead he nods. He will do this, not for Asha, but for himself. The first thing he’s done for himself since Ramsay Bolton dragged him to the cross.

∞

_The air is freezing, nipping at his fingers and toes as he is led through the path of war-wearied men. The body which he inhabits is much smaller – he deduces it to be a girl from the clothing which he wears, and Jon has a sudden sinking feeling of dread the farther he walks. The snow is blowing all around, the wind biting into any exposed flesh, and Jon feels the shiver through the small body he looks through. The men and women surrounding him suddenly part in the front and Jon sees the awaiting platform._

_No, he thinks. No, no, no._

_Then, suddenly, Melisandre appears before him, looking calm in her dark dress and ruby necklace. She seems unfazed by what is to come, and Jon hates her for it._

_“Where’s my father?” He demands in a small girl’s voice, the voice of the only person it could be: Shireen Baratheon. “I want to see my father.”_

_“It will all be over soon, princess.” Melisandre assures him/her, but Jon can feel it deep in Shireen’s bones that something is so very wrong. She shakes her head insistently but Melisandre pays no mind, nodding to the guards who had brought her here._

_She moves to back away but the men grab her easily, her body too small and fragile to fend off trained men. The terror that settles over the poor girl fills Jon with an ache to scream, to plead with the fucking_ witch _, to tell her to stop this, but he knows it is of no use to beg for something that has already passed._

_They tie him/her to the wooden post on the pyre, her screaming the entire time: “Where is my father?” “No, you can’t do this!” “Father, where are you?” “Please, let me go!” “Don’t let her do this!”_

_She keeps screaming while Melisandre raises her voice over her small shrieks._

_“Hear us now, My Lord!” Melisandre prays. “To You we offer up this girl, that You may cleanse her with Your fire, and that its light may lead our way. Accept this token of faith, My Lord, and lead us from the darkness.”_

_The torch passes before his eyes and Jon struggles against the bindings, knowing it is of no use. The witch raises up the torch, its blaze flicking in the wind, and she prays: “Lord of Light, show us the way.”_

_“Mother, please!” Jon screams, seeing Shireen’s mother and father watching from farther away. Jon feels such deep fury for Stannis and Selyse Baratheon that he wants to lunge for their throats. No one deserves what they are doing to this innocent child._

_“Lord of Light, protect us! For the night is dark and full of terrors.” And with that, Melisandre sets the logs alight with fire, Shireen offering pitiful cries as she sees what is to come. Jon wants to vomit, to scream, but he can’t do anything but live through this moment; the last moment of this young girl’s life. As the flames move closer, he sees Selyse Baratheon trying to run for her daughter, but the guards grab her before she can get there, holding her back as she fights to end the madness. Shireen begs for it to stop, but it does no good._

_The heat is intense, so close as it crawls to his feet and suddenly he_ screams _as the flames reach her skin and the pain is the worst Jon has ever felt. He writhes in agony as the flames overtake Shireen’s body and he screams along with her, because it’s too much; this is too much._

_Melisandre’s face is barely visible through the fiery blaze, calm and self-possessed. Jon hates her with every part of his being, but he can no longer spare thought for the woman when the fire is eating away at his being, the pain so unbearable that he begs for mercy, wants someone to kill him faster than this fucking funeral pyre on which they are burning a small girl –_

Jon jolts forward and leans over the bed, his stomach emptying itself onto the cold stone floor. He feels Robb move behind him, hand rubbing soothing circles into his spine as Jon’s whole body heaves so badly he can’t spare his brother a thought. He gags and realizes that he’s sobbing, tears streaming down his face in both agony and hatred.

Robb makes soothing comments, but they fall on deaf ears as Jon collapses back into his arms, his body shaking with grief and the need to retch, but he has nothing left to expel from his stomach. Jon wishes now more than ever that he’d killed the witch, had driven his sword through her stomach. No, he wishes he’d burned _her_ on a pyre, to show her exactly what her “god” had told her to do. He can hear Davos so clearly saying: if he commands you to burn children, your lord is _evil_.

“Jon,” Robb murmurs into his temple, the curls there damp from sweat. “Jon, please, tell me what to do.”

Jon is still shaking, his body completely covered in cold sweat as his body tries to remind itself that it was only a dream; he hadn’t burned to death on some makeshift funeral pyre. He was alive, he was whole – or, as whole as he’d ever be.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jon whispers roughly, his throat sore and dry from vomiting.

“I know,” Robb tells him desperately, holding him tightly as Jon lies limply against him, not knowing how he’s supposed to get up.

“I have _never – “_ Jon cuts off, his voice breaking into a sob as the tears reappear, his shoulders shaking once more with the overwhelming anguish he feels. Robb’s lips press to his temple, his arms not letting up for a moment. “I have never felt that before. They _burned_ her – that pain…I _can’t –“_ he cuts off with a sob, curling tightly into the small comfort Robb’s body provides.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Robb tells him softly and then says nothing more. They stay like that for a long time, the darkness bleeding slowly into dawn as they sit in heartbroken silence.

Jon finally collapses into a fitful sleep when the sun is over the horizon, setting the snow on the ground into crystal, so blindingly brilliant. Robb quietly gets out of bed to avoid waking him, and sets about getting dressed. Ghost is lying at the end of the bed on the stone floor, having moved there when Jon was sick.

Robb sighs and, once dressed, goes to find someone to clean it up. He finds a servant boy who agrees to do so quietly and Robb makes his way out into the brisk, early morning weather. The courtyard is already flowing with people going in and out, men practicing against one another, and some men playing some sort of game in the stables.

Robb escapes the mayhem and goes up to the small tower that brings back fond memories of he and Jon as children, kissing in the stairwell and, on one memorable occasion, fumbling around together on the floor of the open area at the tower’s peak. Robb moves to the window to look out past the walls of Winterfell, where the snow stretches out in all directions, covering the trees in frost.

The dreams seem to only be getting worse, and Robb is terrified of what is happening to his brother. The way Jon had cried, talking hysterically about being on fire, makes Robb ache for his brother. He wishes there was something he could do, something he could say to make Jon smile like he used to, and not the exhausted one he gives now.

_“Tell me about him,” Talisa had asked, the night he told her about Jon._

_“I shouldn’t,” Robb had replied, not able to meet her eyes. “You’re my wife. You shouldn’t have to think about such things –“_

_“You love him,” Talisa cut him off. “It doesn’t make me think you love me less. I want to hear about the boy who stole your heart first, Robb Stark.” The way she had smiled at him had eased the knots in Robb’s stomach._

_“He wasn’t a noble boy, he was a bastard.” Robb laid down next to his wife, Talisa leaning on an elbow to look at him intently. “He had black curls, long, because he never liked to cut his hair.” Robb laughed. “He rarely smiled, so it was always my aim to get him to laugh. He was great with a sword, a natural, and he was a great hunter. My mother never approved of our friendship, which I think made it even more important to me.”_

_“How old were you?”_

_“Fourteen, the first time we kissed.” Robb closed his eyes, picturing Jon’s lips, strawberry-stained and lovely, and the way he’d blushed so prettily. “I fell hard and fast.”_

_“What happened to him?” Talisa asked, tracing a finger across his chest. This part ached, the part that missed Jon like a missing limb._

_“He left,” Robb told her. “A few years ago. We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.”_

_“You miss him.” It wasn’t a question, so Robb felt no need to answer it. “You’re a good man, Robb Stark. You love deeply.”_

_“I love you, you know,” Robb told her and Talisa had smiled, leaning down to place a soft kiss on his lips._

_“I know, and it’s okay to love him, too.”_

Robb sighs, knowing it won’t do either of them good to think about things that are beyond their control. He feels guilty for being happy to have a second chance at life with Jon. He wishes Talisa hadn’t died the way she had, but it’s hard to remember his love for her when Jon encompasses everything these days.

He turns and looks out the opposite window, out at the courtyard, and notices that people are making their way into the hall to break fast. Robb decides to join them and hope that Jon sleeps a little while more; he will need it for the days to come.

∞

_He limps among the bodies of fallen soldiers, using his sword as a crutch. He’s out of breath and the pain echoes throughout his entire body. He slumps against a tree, trying to catch his breath, when someone behind him cries out,_

_“No, please, no!” The shout is cut off by the sound of a blade slicing through flesh, and Jon turns weakly to see who is coming for him. Two men in dark gear approach, looking smug and satisfied. They suddenly launch themselves at him and Jon, with the little strength he can muster, lifts his sword to defend himself. One slices at his leg, bringing him down shortly, but Jon manages to adjust his weight and thrust his sword into one whilst pulling his smaller blade at his waist and plunging it into the neck of the other._

_When they both fall, Jon falls with them, his leg aching with the fresh wound and his head spinning. He pulls himself into a sitting position, leaning against a tree, and tries to take stock. He looks down at his heavily bleeding leg and knows that if he stays there, he’ll bleed out._

_He needn’t worry, because heavy footsteps are approaching from his left. He lifts his head once again, both resigned and angry, to see Brienne standing before him._

_“Bolton has women fighting for him?” Jon asks, his voice gruff and thin. Brienne seems distinctly unimpressed._

_“I don’t fight for the Boltons,” she replies. “I’m Brienne of Tarth. I was Kingsguard to Renly Baratheon.” The body Jon occupied seems to relax against the tree, fully giving up. Stannis Baratheon knew when he was beaten._

_“I was there when he was murdered by a shadow with your face,” Brienne continues. “You murdered him, with blood magic?”_

_Jon looks her over a moment and finally heaves out a breath saying, “I did.”_

_Brienne walks closer to him, her hand on the hilt of her sword. She pulls it partially from its sheath and says, “In the name of Renly of House Baratheon, First of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realms: I, Brienne of Tarth, sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?”_

_Jon-as-Stannis considers this and then finally gets comfortable against the tree at his back._

_“Go on, do your duty,” he tells her, no longer caring what happens next. He’s finished._

_Brienne nods and pulls out her sword. Their eyes meet for a moment, an acknowledgment, and then she swings-_

Jon wakes up feeling weak and exhausted, but he knows that sleep is now far away. With a weary sigh, he pulls himself out of bed and goes about changing under the watchful eye of Ghost.

Another day, and Jon already hopes for a quick death.

∞

Meera is startled awake by Bran shaking her shoulder. She turns to frown at him, looking down at her with excited eyes.

“I know how to get us over the Wall.”

More awake now, Meera sits up and scrubs tiredly at her face and nods, knowing she shouldn’t expect to get an explanation that makes sense to her. She’s pleasantly surprised, then, when Bran grabs her hands urgently.

“I warged into a bird yesterday to see how far it was to the Wall. It’s only about a mile from here; it’s doable.”

“So, how do we get there?” Meera asks, already standing to get what little stuff they have together.

“You’re going to go, Meera, and come back for me with help.”

“Bran – Bran, no.” Meera shakes her head firmly and Bran sighs.

“It’s the only way, Meera! You won’t be able to carry me the whole way, and we need to go _now_.”

She wants to protest more, but she knows he’s right: this is the only way.

“Okay,” Meera nods weakly. “But what happens if they come for you?”

“We can’t worry about that, now.” Bran shakes his head at her. “I’m going to warg into a bird again, and I’ll lead you to the Wall, okay?”

“Bran –“

“Meera, _please_ ,” Bran pleads with her. Meera sighs, wishing she could say no, but knows it will do neither of them any good.

“Okay,” she slips her blade into her belt and shares a look with Bran. He gives her a slight smile before his eyes glaze over and suddenly, from behind her, a large raven cries out to her. She turns and smiles up at it, still amazed after all this time that it’s _Bran_ inside its small body.

“Okay,” she repeats, moving to follow in the raven’s path.

 


	8. Journey of a Thousand Miles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for the amount of time it took to post this. I'm sorry.

_Jon walks aimlessly down one of the hallways in Winterfell, not quite knowing how to fill the free time he found himself with. Or, the free time this_ body _has. As he makes his way towards the staircase, Theon comes shuffling quickly down the steps towards him. He stops and his eyes go comically wide when he sees him – or, rather, sees the body he inhabits._

_“Reek,” Jon says, his voice coming out high and feminine, filled with a cruel sounding laughter. “What are you doing?”_

_“I – My Lady – there’s – I was just –“_

_“Spit it out, dog,” Jon snaps at the pathetic vision Theon makes before him. Jon has trouble reconciling the quivering mess as the same Theon Greyjoy he grew up with at Winterfell. Sansa was right; he was not the same man at all._

_“I lost Lady Sansa,” Theon mumbles, and the body stiffens, pulling Jon to tower over the trembling creature. Despite Theon clearly being taller than the girl Jon is seeing through, Theon manages to cower down so low that she appears giant._

_“You what?” Jon demands, feeling the body fill with rage and annoyance, but also, surprisingly, with_ fear _._

_“I lost Lady Sansa,” Theon repeats. An arm grabs ahold of him and pulls Theon close enough for their noses to touch._

_“Well, then, we best find her.” Jon/the woman drags Theon along down the corridor, snatching up a bow and arrow as she heads outside. “Where would she have gone, Reek?” Jon demands. Theon is practically blubbering behind her as he attempts to get his feet to move fast enough with her tugging him along._

_“I don’t know, M-My L-Lady! She s-said before that she w-was going to t-try and s-send for help by p-p-putting a candle in the tow-tower window!” Theon cries out in despair. The body smiles, a tight and cruel thing, and continues to tug Theon along as Jon/she marches up the stairs to go to the tower Theon had mentioned. As they turn the corner, Jon smiles and releases Theon, notching an arrow into the bow and aiming at the red head in time for the girl to turn and startle at the sight of Jon/the woman._

_“My Lady,” Jon greets her happily. “I’ve come to escort you back to your chambers.”_

_“Go with her,” Theon urges Sansa, his eyes fixed on his feet. “Please.”_

_Sansa looks between them and says, “I know what Ramsay is. I know what he’ll do to me.” She continues looking at Theon when she adds, “If I’m going to die, let it happen while there’s still some of me left.”_

_“Die?” Jon asks, dropping the arrow to his side. “Who said anything about dying? You can’t die; your father was Warden of the North, Ramsay needs you.” Jon pauses. “Though, I suppose he doesn’t need all of you. Just the parts he’ll use to make his heir, until you’ve given him a boy or two and he’s finished using them.” He smiles, aiming his arrow once again. “Then he’s got incredible plans for those parts.”_

_Sansa’s breathing hitches and Theon stiffens slightly at Jon’s side._

_“So,” Jon says cheerfully, “shall we wait for him to come back or should we begin now?” Sansa’s mouth drops open slightly but no words escape. “You’re leaving it to me?” Jon asks, tugging the arrow into its place and taking aim. “Good, let’s begin,” he draws back and goes to loose the arrow when suddenly Theon rams into his side and the arrow veers off course._

_“Reek!” Jon spits as Theon takes firm hold of him and then pushes him over the edge until he’s falling, falling, falling –_

 

Robb frowns as he slowly comes to consciousness, his body screaming at the heat surrounding it. _Gods,_ he thinks sleepily, _why is it so_ hot? Turning, Robb’s hand brushes Jon’s arm and he jerks, his eyes snapping open. His hand moves to feel at Jon’s face. He’s burning up, his skin feeling like a fire, and he quickly shakes his brother, not knowing what to do.

Jon gasps, blinking up at him in surprise.

“Jon, you’re burning up!” Robb tells him urgently. “Do you feel okay?”

“I feel fine,” Jon frowns at him and Robb frowns right back. He certainly does not _feel_ fine. His skin feels like it should be melting from the heat it radiates. Robb puts his hand on Jon’s arm and Jon startles.

“Your hand is freezing,” Jon mutters tiredly.

“ _No_ , you’re _burning up_!” Robb argues. Jon glares hazily up at him. He seems fine, despite his temperature.

“I’m fine,” Jon says, grabbing Robb’s hand that’s checking him over. His grip is tight and his palm like fire, but Robb doesn’t pull away. “I’m _fine_ ,” he repeats, softer this time.

“You don’t _feel_ fine,” Robb mumbles, sounding like a petulant child. Jon huffs out a laugh.

“Kick off the furs, then. I’ll keep you warm.” He waggles his brows at his brother and Robb smiles. At least he seems better than he had been the past few days after his dream of the girl burning. Robb does as he said and kicks the furs off himself, hit with the icy air of Winterfell, and then leans into Jon’s hot touch.

∞

 _It would have been much easier to smuggle themselves out of King’s Landing if Cersei Lannister weren’t such a paranoid bitch,_ Margaery thinks as she tries not to hurry down the corridor of Guilder’s Reach, a red scarf billowing out behind her as it shades her face mostly from view.

Loras is next to her wearing a neckerchief of sorts tied around his head to shield his ugly scar from view. He trudges along diligently, but Margaery can tell he’s sick with the fever that had overtaken him the day before. She holds his hand in hers, but its limp and does nothing to squeeze back.

Cersei’s guards are everywhere, looking out for anyone who so much as _thinks_ to criticize what she had done to the sept weeks earlier. The fires had finally all been extinguished, but the number of dead rose steadily each day as more rubble was moved and more bodies were found.

Margaery makes sure to keep her head down as she and Loras make their way towards the gates leading to the countryside. It’ll be about a three-mile journey to the edge of King’s Landing, but she focuses steadfastly on the coin clutched tightly in the hand not holding on to Loras.

The coin was given to Loras by Lancel Lannister as he was being led to the sept for his trial. Lancel had said that it was a gift from the Seven to remember that they were just, but merciful. Margaery isn’t sure about all that, but the coin had been clutched in Loras’ hand when the wildfire burst into the sept, and he had been holding onto Margaery when it did.

They had awoken to screaming and fire, but were somehow completely untouched by the blaze. Not even the rubble of the sept that had landed atop them had left a mark; Margaery and Loras climbed out of the ruined temple with their lives and the coin of the Seven. The coin felt like the only thing anchoring her to the world anymore, and Margaery rarely let it go unless Loras asked to hold it. She suspected he was just as attached, if not more so, to the thing as she was.

Crouching through back alleys, Margaery pulls Loras with her along the crowded streets, halting dutifully for the Queen’s Guard as they passed in their golden glory. The closer they got to leaving King’s Landing, the more rapidly her heart began to beat at the prospect of making it out of and to her grandmother’s arms.

The sound of a horse riding down the corridor makes her heart nearly stop in fear as the hooves grew louder the closer the rider gets. She moves herself and Loras close to the buildings on the side of the corridor to stay out of the horse’s way, but the sword on the rider’s belt catches onto the scarf covering her head and tears it from her, bringing her to a crashing tumble onto the stone ground. She cries out and Loras lurches to grab her. The horse whinnies pitifully as the rider makes a startled noise and turns to look back.

Margaery looks up at the rider and gasps in surprise at the sight of Jaime Lannister staring down at her from his horse.

“I –“ Jaime stops, clearly not sure how to handle the incredible situation they have found themselves in. Loras helps Margaery to her feet and they stare at the queen’s brother in horror for a long moment. Jaime dismounts from his horse quickly and approaches. Margaery flinches away from him as he gets closer.

“How is this – nevermind,” he shakes his head. “Where are you going?”

“Highgarden,” Loras says breathily, “hopefully.”

“Well,” Jaime looks between them, seeming conflicted as he wrings his hand around the wrist of the golden hand. “I’m leaving King’s Landing. Not to Highgarden, but I’d be happy to give you a ride out of the city safely.”

Margaery stares at him in shock. The Kingslayer was offering them a ride out of King’s Landing? He wasn’t going to turn them into his sister for execution?

“Why would you help us?” She demands.

“Because…” Jaime sighs and looks between them again. “You’re both skin and bones, you can fit on my horse.

“Answer me,” Margaery snaps.

“Because what my sister did is the exact same reason I killed Aerys Targaryen all those years ago.” Jaime tells her seriously, his eyes going hard. “And I won’t kill my sister, so.”

Loras looks at Margaery in question. His complexion is pale and grey, and it makes Margaery ache for him.

“Okay,” Margaery says. If she can’t say yes for herself, she’ll do it to get Loras to help faster. Jaime helps them both onto the horse and then climbs up between them with Margaery in front and Loras clinging weakly to the Kingslayer’s back.

They’re out of King’s Landing ten minutes later, and when Jaime asks where to take them to get to Highgarden fastest, Margaery asks where he’ll go.

“I have a friend at Winterfell,” Jaime tells her, a frown on his handsome face.

“I heard people say Jon Snow is the new King in the North,” Loras mutters tiredly.

“It’s true,” Jaime nods as they trot along. “My friend is protecting Sansa Stark, so that’s where I will go.”

Margaery remembers Sansa talking about Winterfell and the protection it offered. She remembers Sansa talking about the love she shared with her siblings – so similar to Margaery and Loras – and how even in her darkest hours and her rantings, Sansa had never sounded unsure that her family was true and just.

“Take us with you,” Margaery says softly. “We’ll find another horse and we’ll go with you to Winterfell.”

“What?” Jaime laughs in disbelief. “Why would you – what? Why wouldn’t you go to Highgarden?”

“Sansa Stark is one of the strongest girls I know,” Margaery tells him. “If she’s safe, and she’s got someone you call a friend protecting her, then I want to go there, too.”

“Me, too,” Loras nods, his head brushing Jaime’s back.

“I don’t –“

“If you say no, we will go to Highgarden,” Margaery tells the Kingslayer. “But it’s a long journey to go alone.” She isn’t sure if she’s talking about herself, or Jaime Lannister.

∞

 

Edd is seated in the dining hall with some of the other men, trying to cram as much meat into their bellies as possible. Legan makes a crude joke and they all laugh when the horn suddenly blows. They all tense, and then a second blow of the horn sounds. _Wildlings_? They all think, _what Wildlings are even left?_

The sound of the gates opening comes then, and they all scramble for the doors, their bowls of soup forgotten on the table. They rush down the stairs until they’re standing in the courtyard, staring into the tunnel. A small figure approaches, holding something that might be a weapon, in its hands. As it moves closer, Edd’s jaw drops in surprise. A girl of about sixteen comes into view, holding a stick with a piece of fur wrapped around it like a flag, her dark curls messy, appearing extremely tired.

“I need to speak to Jon Snow!” The girl says urgently. Edd frowns at her.

“He ain’t here,” one of the men tell her and she seems upset by this news.

“I’m Lord Commander,” Edd says, stepping forward. It still seems strange to call himself that; he certainly doesn’t _feel_ like no Lord Commander.

“My name is Meera Reed, my father is Howland Reed. I need help.”

“What sort of help?” Edd asks her warily.

“My friend, Bran, he can’t walk. I need your help bringing him back to this side of the Wall.”

“Bran?” Edd asks in confusion.

“Brandon Stark of Winterfell,” The girl, Meera, says seriously. Edd shares stunned looks with the others before clearing his throat.

“Jon Snow’s little brother?” She nods. “What – How did you get north of the Wall?”

“It’s a really long story,” Meera sighs. “Please, we need to go get him. The Walkers might get him if we don’t hurry.”

Remembering the real danger of going beyond the Wall, Edd nods and tells two of the men to get horses. Edd grabs his own horse and helps Meera onto it. Edd looks down at the remaining men. “You fuckers better let us back in right quick when we get back.”

They all laugh as Edd and the two other men race off through the tunnel on horseback, Edd allowing her to lead them to her friend.

 

_The field is covered in snow, the blizzard swirling the white flakes all around. A dragon flies low across the field, a direwolf racing from the opposite direction. Before they meet it changes. A faceless child leaps high into the air. A dove bursts into flames over a raging sea, waves foaming as the water swirls. Fire – so much fire. A sea of blood descending over Winterfell’s halls. Beasts of all sizes holding spears and swords. A figure emerges from the ashes of a funeral pyre._

Bran gasps and sits forward, his hand slipping from the weirwood tree just as horses burst into the small clearing. Three men look down at him wearing all black: men of the Night’s Watch. In front of one of them sits Meera, smiling down at him.

“You all right?” She asks, dropping from the horse’s back to rush over to check on him.

“I’m good,” Bran tells her shakily. She helps situate him and then two of the Night’s Watchmen pull him up and get him settled atop one of their horses.

“I’m looking forward to you telling us the story when we get back,” one of them says looking between Bran and Meera. They turn their horses around and race back for the Wall and Castle Black.

∞

Robb is digging through the drawers of his father’s old study when he finds it: a scroll addressed to Jon about his dreams. Jon hadn’t mentioned it, but the letter urges him to seek help from the sender.

Robb frowns, staring down at it in confusion, before deciding to ask about it. He clears the desk and then makes his way down to the courtyard where some of the older men are teaching younger men to fight. Jon is there, showing a boy of about thirteen the proper way to hold his shield. Robb smiles at the sight of Jon completely in his element, and he decides he doesn’t want to disturb him.

Davos is sitting up by the balcony overlooking the training yard, and Robb climbs the steps to him.

“Lord Stark,” Davos greets him with a bow of his head. Robb rolls his eyes.

“I’ve told you, just call me Robb. It’ll make both of our lives much simpler.” Davos smiles at that and Robb holds out the letter. “I found this in the study. Do you know who it’s from?”

Davos unrolls the letter and frowns, reading the words. After his eyes scan the page, his frown turns to anger. He shoves the letter back to Robb harshly.

“That would be the Red Woman. Did Jon write to her?” He demands.

“I don’t know,” Robb shakes his head. “I would assume from this letter that he did.” He looks out at Jon practicing with the others. “I don’t know much about her.”

“She’s evil,” Davos says instantly, his tone cold. Robb turns to examine the man and Davos allows it. “You have to make sure Jon doesn’t ask her to come here. She’ll ruin him.”

“Ruin him?” Robb asks in surprise.

“The same way she did Stannis,” Davos nods. “The Red Priestess. What a joke. There was nothing holy about the things she did. Blood magic and burning children.”

“Jon said she burned a little girl…” Robb says slowly.

“Stannis Baratheon’s daughter, Shireen. A lovely girl, so kind…she had grey scale, but they somehow managed to stop it from spreading. She didn’t deserve what that woman did to her.”

“I knew that she was with Stannis – she said that Stannis was the rightful king and that he was meant to sit on the Iron Throne. What happened to that?”

“She was wrong,” Davos hesitates and then says, “She’s the reason you died.”

“What do you mean?” Robb frowns at him.

“She used blood magic to help kill people usurping his rightful throne. You, Joffrey Baratheon, and Balon Greyjoy.”

“But Balon Greyjoy is still alive,” Robb points out.

“I’ll bet my last coin that he will die soon. I may hate the woman, but I’ve seen the things she has done, the things she’s predicted. He’ll die, sooner or later.” He pauses again. “The things she’s done…Kidnapping, murder…sex.”

“Sex?” Robb laughs, startled. “What do you mean?”

“If you don’t come to the faith right away, she has her ways. It generally ends with her seducing the other men. She did with Stannis, she tried with me, she did with one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards. She tried with Jon, when he was Lord Commander at Castle Black.”

“Really?” Robb raises an eyebrow. “Tried, but he wouldn’t?”

“From what it sounds like, he came very close.” Davos tells him seriously, silently telling Robb that what Melisandre has done with her body was nothing to make light of. “I’ve no doubt if she were to come here, she’d use all manner of tricks and magic to seduce Jon to her side and to her Lord of Light.”

“You know that Jon and I are…”

“I do,” Davos nods and looks him straight in the eye. “And to that I say this: Stannis loved his daughter, and he burned her at the stake for that woman. Robert Baratheon’s bastard son was practically sold as her slave, and he was still seduced by that woman. I don’t know what it is she does to them all, but she wraps them around her finger and calls it the Lord’s Fire. She’s dangerous, Robb; do not let her come here.”

Davos turns on his heel and strides off. Robb watches him a moment before looking back down at Jon in the training yard. He’s moved on to teaching a Wildling boy how to properly hold his spear to block. He tries to imagine Jon and a mystical priestess, but he can’t picture it. He trusts Davos’ words, though, and knows he needs to caution Jon against this – even if he’s desperate to figure out his dreams.

∞

_Before him stand three terrified girls, all no older than ten. In his hands he holds a carved, wooden stick. Slowly, he stands and begins circling the girls. With a viciousness Jon himself never possessed, he lashes out with the stick and strikes the first girl at the base of her neck. She cries out, the sound horrible in the silence of the room. Jon knows that whatever happens now, it will not be pretty._

_He moves on and strikes the second girl on her bottom, causing the girl to cry out and curl in on herself as she quivers. Jon continues to the third girl, blonde and silent. He hits her between the shoulder blades, but rather than cry out, she sways with the hit and does not lift her head from where her chin rests against her collarbones. Jon considers her and then strides around her to stare. His arm lashes out again and hits her in the arms, but again, she does not make a sound. The two other girls look at her in surprise tinged with horror._

_Jon strikes her again, this time in the head, and_ again _, she does not move._

_“I can see I have my work cut out for me,” the voice comes out low and gravely. The lust within the body rises to the surface, overwhelming Jon with it. He already hates the man this body belongs to. “You two, out,” he says to the other girls and they scamper out of the room._

_The third girl lifts her head and pushes her hair aside to show a beautiful face, unmarred in its youth. The savage need to destroy her rises to the forefront of the body’s mind, and Jon wishes he didn’t have to watch as the small girl looks up at him in time for him to wind back and punch her in the stomach. This causes her to let out a startled noise as she stumbles and falls to her knees, wheezing for breath._

_She coughs a few times and seems to gather her wits about her. She then slowly moves her hand from her stomach and brings it to her face. Jon frowns as the girl suddenly rips the face away and –_

_It’s Arya._

_She produces a knife and lunges for him, her dagger hitting Jon in his right eye as he collapses backward with the force of her body. He shouts at the pain in his face and Arya slams the blade into his left eye while he cries out. He can’t see her, can barely_ think _through the pain, and Arya shoves a piece of fabric into his mouth to quiet him. She then hits him several more times with the knife, this time in his chest and stomach. He groans through it around the gag in his mouth, his brain not knowing which pain to pay the most attention to. Arya climbs off him and he rolls onto his side in agony, moaning through it all._

 _“You were the first person on my list, you know,” Arya tells him._ List _, Jon thinks._ What list? _“For killing Syrio Forel, remember him?” Jon moans, rising onto his knees and whimpering, his arms trying to guard his chest weakly. “Probably not,” Arya continues. “I’ve gotten a few of the others, the Many Faced God stole a few more from me.” It sounds like she’s circling him. “I’m glad he left me you.”_

_Jon chokes around the gag, feeling the blood leaking down his face from his eyes like tears, the pain in the body’s skull screaming at him. He feels Arya kneel down beside him._

_“Do you know who I am?” She asks. Jon moves to say something, but she grabs the back of his neck and tugs him up a little. “I can’t hear you.”_

_She jams the knife into his stomach again and he grunts around his gag. Arya removes the blade and stands up, walking around him again and standing behind him._

_“You know who I am. I’m Arya Stark.” She stabs him in the back and Jon arches his head into her chest, the body trying to yank away from her grip. She then removes the gag and he cries pitifully._

_“Do you know who you are?” Arya asks him. “You’re no one; you’re nothing.”_

_She then tugs his head back and slides the knife across his throat and he groans once more, horribly, and-_

Jon sits up in his and Robb’s bed covered in sweat, feeling the heat radiating off himself. _Perhaps Robb is right_ , Jon thinks. _Am I really burning up?_

“Jon?” Robb mumbles sleepily, blinking up at him through the firelight. The gradually growing snowfalls at Winterfell make it less and less likely for them to gain supporters. It’s weighing on them all.

“I saw Arya,” Jon says.

“Arya?” Robb suddenly seems much more awake and he sits up next to Jon, and Jon tells him about his dream – about Arya’s kill.

∞

Arya and Sansa are standing on the deck, watching as Brienne books them passage to Pyke. Sansa’s finally finished telling Arya about Jon’s life at Castle Black because she’d been curious.

“You said they brought him back to life?” Arya asks, sounding worried. Sansa blinks down at her.

“The Red Woman did, yes,” she nods. “Jon didn’t like talking about it, so I never really got many details.”

The Red Woman – Arya had her on her list, too. The Red Woman, who had told her she had darkness in her soul. Had said she would be seeing Arya again someday.

“When I was with the Brotherhood,” Arya begins as Brienne motions for them to come. They both move together towards the boat that will take them to the Iron Islands. “I met a man who had been brought back to life _six times_.”

“Six times?” Sansa asks, eyes widening. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t really know, but he told me something – he told me that each time he came back, he came back a little… _less_. Less of him left, I suppose.” She pauses. “Do you think there’s less of Jon, now?”

“I think there was stuff missing,” Sansa nods. “But…Robb came back. I think that’s part of why the gods gave him back – to replace that missing piece.”

“But, why couldn’t _you_ do that? Why did it have to be Robb, specifically? Why not any of our family?”

“Robb…” Sansa hesitates, not sure how to explain the truth of Jon and Robb’s relationship. “Robb and Jon are…different.”

Brienne helps them into the boat and then moves to collect their things from by the horses.

“Different?” Arya frowns at Sansa. “What do you mean? Because Robb’s the eldest? Because he’s closest in age?”

“Not…exactly.” Sansa bites her lip as Brienne returns with the luggage, climbing aboard and pushing them towards one of the cabins.

“It’ll be about a day’s journey to the islands.”

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa smiles at the woman. “Please, you’ve been so good to us. We’ll speak quietly by the fire – you take the bed for now. Get some rest.”

“My Lady, I don’t think I –“ Brienne begins but Sansa raises her hand to cut her off.

“Please, I insist.”

Brienne hesitates another moment before nodding. She sets about setting the fire up and then begins tugging off pieces of armor while Arya and Sansa crawl down beside the fire and huddle together beside it’s glowing warmth.

“Tell me,” Arya demands. “Stop avoiding my question.”

“I walked in on Robb and Jon…in an intimate embrace, a few weeks ago.”

“Intimate embrace?” Arya looks at Sansa, whose cheeks have turned a pretty pink. Arya suddenly realizes what Sansa is saying and guffaws, her voice echoing through the small chamber as Brienne uses a small basin to scrub at her face. Sansa shushes her, cheeks still blazing.

“I was horrified – I hadn’t ever thought…”

“Since _when_?”

“They said they were fourteen.”

“Wow,” Arya shakes her head. “It seems a lifetime ago.”

“It does,” Sansa nods, looking down at her hands. “Missed your fourteenth name day.”

“And my fifteenth, and my sixteenth,” Arya smiles at her, not rough and boyish as it had once been, but weary. “I missed both of your weddings.”

Sansa sniffs at the comment, but smirks at Arya in her peripheral. Arya leans against her and Sansa rests her head atop her little sister’s.

“I suppose it isn’t so strange, to think of Jon and Robb,” Arya says quietly. “I mean, they’re only half-brothers, and the Targaryens married each other all the time.”

“The Targaryens could still have children together,” Sansa points out.

“You don’t approve?” Arya asks, leaning back to meet Sansa’s eyes.

“I was…shocked, at first. But…I see how it has changed Jon, having Robb around. And Robb seems so…happy with Jon. I think that if they can find a little happiness with all of the craziness, then I’m happy for them.”

“Me, too,” Arya says, laying her head against Sansa’s shoulder once again.

∞

“All right,” Jon says loudly, calling the room of bannermen to order. He nods to Robb, who smiles at him briefly before stepping forward.

“We thank you all for being here, my Lords, and we thank you for your cooperation. What we are asking of you now is a serious task, one we believe you will be able to oversee before the winds of winter become too great.”

Robb moves to stand behind a giant map of the North, one left behind from Robb’s campaign in the South. “Lord Glover, we need you and Lord Cerwyn to ride some of your men to Torrhen’s Square. House Tallhart has had pleasant dealings with you the past several years, and I believe they will be highly receptive to your plea for support.”

“If not,” Jon says slyly, “Remind them that when they chose to stand behind Stannis Baratheon, they chose to fight a war for a false claim. This, however, is _not_ a false claim. Winter is coming.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lord Glover nods.

“Your Grace,” Lord Cerwyn bows his head slightly.

“Next,” Robb continues. “Lord Manderly, we will need you to ride for The Rills and request support from House Ryswell.”

“Ryswell?” Manderly raises an eyebrow. “Did they not pledge allegiance to Roose Bolton?”

“Didn’t _you_ allow Roose Bolton to rule as Warden of the North?” Jon asks simply, staring at him. Robb holds back a laugh at the way Lord Manderly flushes at the reminder. “Tell them they can pledge their allegiance to the _rightful_ Warden of the North, Robb Stark, or they can perish.”

“Warden of the North?” Robb asks, his head snapping to look at his brother.

“It’s always been your rightful title,” Jon smiles at him. Robb smiles softly at him and then looks at Lord Manderly.

“Can we trust you to go to The Rills and gain House Ryswell’s support for the war to come?”

“At once, my Lord,” he nods to Robb, “Your Grace,” he nods to Jon and then leans over to talk in hushed tones to his maester.

“Lady Mormont has ridden for Bear Island to collect her people. She will be bringing back the remaining force of young, fighting men with her to add to our campaign.” Robb tells Jon and the rest of the men. “Finally, His Grace and I will be riding for Widow’s Watch, to request House Flint’s support in the campaign.”

“House Flint?” Lord Glover frowns at Robb.

“Yes?” Robb frowns back.

“House Flint already pledged for Jon Snow before we retook Winterfell.”

“Aye,” Jon nods. “They pledged fealty, but they would not send men for someone not named Stark.”

“Which you now are,” Robb reminds Jon and everyone else. “As well as King in the North. House Flint has an army they’ve kept hidden away for many years.” Robb smiles. “I suggest we bring it out of hiding.”

“The rest of you will be charged with overseeing Winterfell. If you think of other houses, send ravens immediately. This war is coming fast, and it will bring with it a winter we haven’t seen in many years.” Jon tells them all.

“Your Grace,” Davos says hesitantly. “Is it in our best interest to have yourself and Lord Stark away from Winterfell at the same time?”

Jon nods, having already discussed this at length with Robb. “I understand your worry, Lord Davos, and I agree; it is a risk for us both to leave. Unfortunately, it is likely they will refuse to see me if I do not have my brother at my side, as House Flint refused me and my sister anything more than verbal fealty without a Stark, male heir.”

Davos nods and Robb nods to all the men.

“If anyone else has cause, let him speak now.” When no one does, Robb claps his hands. “I suggest you plan to leave soon. Who knows when the winds of winter will truly be upon us.”

The men nod and begin leaving. Jon turns to Robb and says, “We depart tomorrow, yes?”

“Right,” Robb nods. “Lord Reed has offered us ten men to accompany us on the journey. I’ve also warned Cook that men will be departing soon and will be in need of food for the journey.”

“Good,” Jon nods tiredly. “I need to send a raven out to a friend before we depart.”

“Jon,” Robb says cautiously. “You should know…I saw the letter from the Red Woman.” Jon’s gaze snaps to his face. “I don’t think you should write her back.”

“You –“ Jon shakes his head, a small smile coming to his face. “Robb, I have no intention of writing back. I wrote to her out of desperation, but I will never trust her. The raven I’m sending is to Sam, at the Citadel.”

“Oh,” Robb sighs in relief. “Good,”

“I’ll return shortly,” Jon promises. He kisses Robb chastely before walking towards his study where his letter to Sam is. He finds Melisandre’s note tucked back where it had been, and he wonders if Robb would have brought it up at all if he hadn’t feared Jon was turning to the Red Woman for counsel.

The letter to Sam explains everything to the best of Jon’s ability. He’s never been a poet – can barely get the words out of his mouth let alone get them organized enough to put onto paper. The letter covers months of happenings: from the rebellion of Thorne and Olly, his return from the dead, Sansa’s arrival, the battle with the Boltons, Robb’s return, and the need to prepare for the Great War – the reason Sam left all those months ago.

The letter spans nearly eight pages in Jon’s scratchy writing, and it likely doesn’t come close to encapsulating everything he wants to tell Sam. The gist of it is that Sam needed to hurry and get back to the North – he was desperately needed.

∞

When their small boat reaches land, Brienne helps Arya and Sansa up onto the shore’s edge and through the curving rows of fishermen and stewards. She secures them two horses and they ride for Balon Greyjoy’s fortress deeper into the rocky landscape. Arya rides with Brienne, her tiny, wiry body barely registering into the weight atop the horse. Sansa trots idly beside them, watching the crashing waves hitting the shores of Pyke and foaming over.

As they get closer to the stronghold, Brienne finds her apprehension growing. She’s heard stories about the reavings and raidings that the men of Pyke were best known for; especially the stories of the Greyjoy family’s legacy on the Iron Islands. She wonders if it’s worth the hassle of getting Balon Greyjoy’s ships – the White Walkers won’t be coming over the waters, she doesn’t think. But they need all the men they can get, and she’s learned that the Greyjoys are a family that it’s better to keep a close eye on rather than ignore.

“Halt!” A nasally voice cries out as they approach the stone gates of the fortress. Brienne and Sansa rein in the horses and wait while a man a foot shorter than Brienne stocks over to them. “State your business.”

“We’re here to speak with Lord Greyjoy,” Brienne announces.

“ _King_ Greyjoy, he is!” The man snarls at them. “And what might you want with him? Does he know you’re coming?”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head, her fiery hair reflecting dimly off the weak sunlight that filters through the cloudy horizon. “But he knows my family. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell and I need to speak to… _King_ Greyjoy.”

The man looks her over skeptically and then motions for two guards at the gates to open the doors. Brienne leads them through the gate and up the stony path to the castle. Arya seems dazed by the rough-edged castle carved into the cliffside, while Sansa remains stoic in the face of its darkness.

Two guards open the doors for them to enter and Brienne walks behind Sansa and Arya, keeping them in sight, while they follow the guards through the dimly lit interior. They come into a hall like the feasting hall at Winterfell, and a man seated in the chair turns to look at them as they enter. He wears a crown made of wood, his blond hair curling slightly around it, and his eyes are intrigued. Brienne notices the way he seems to take keen interest in Sansa.

“And what have we here?” The man asks, looking first to the two guards who had accompanied them, then to Sansa and Arya, and finally tilting his head to look Brienne over.

“You’re not Balon Greyjoy,” Sansa says, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“I’m _not_ ,” the man laughs, “thank _fuck_ for that.” He looks at the two guards who chuckle. Brienne feels the hair on the back of her neck rise, forewarning that something is wrong. _Why isn’t Balon Greyjoy here?_

“ _I_ am King Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, holder of the Salt Throne,” the man tells them with a smirk.

“What happened to Balon Greyjoy?” Sansa asks.

“I killed him,” Euron says simply. He narrows his eyes. “But, you have yet to tell me who _you_ are, pretty girl.”

“My name is Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Sansa says firmly, not allowing her discomfort to show. “This is my sister, Arya Stark, and our guard, Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

Euron barks out a laugh and stares giddily at Brienne. “ _That_ there is a _woman_? I never would have guessed!” He and his guards laugh hard and Brienne internally rolls her eyes. She’s long since gotten over the way men feel about her.

“What can I do for you, Sansa Stark of Winterfell?”

“We…I came to speak to the Lord of the Iron Islands about –“

“About your little war?” Euron guesses. “I heard your brother was calling himself King in the North. Tell me, did he also take his dear, dead brother’s bed chambers and favorite horse while he was at it?”

Sansa’s look darkens considerably when she says, “We’re not fighting for the Iron Throne. Jon didn’t call himself king, the other men did. The war we are fighting is the war coming from north of the Wall.”

“From what I hear, your brother already brought the Wildlings over the Wall. What in the name of the Drowned God is left to come over?”

“The dead,” Arya tells him lowly. Euron looks at her and then smirks.

“Right, my nan used to tell me stories –“

“They aren’t stories, Lord…King Greyjoy,” Sansa shakes her head. “The White Walkers are just as real as you and I are.”

“And you thought I’d devote men to this war of the dead?” Euron demands smugly. “Why would I do that?”

“I had hoped –“

“You had hoped my nephew and niece were here to help you plead your case, I imagine,” Euron tells her. “But at the moment, my brother’s children are as good as dead when I catch them. I imagine the idea was mainly Asha’s, though. Theon doesn’t have any balls to make decisions with anymore, metaphorically _or_ literally!” The men laugh again and Arya glares at the man.

“Men,” Euron says passionately with a large grin. “Why don’t you make up a few rooms for these _lovely_ ladies. I’m sure we haven’t finished our discussions quite yet.”

Brienne imagines whatever other discussion Euron Greyjoy intends them to have has very little to do with helping them fight the White Walkers and much more to do with the way he greedily eyes Sansa as more guards enter and lead them out.

∞

Jon and Robb leave with some of Howland Reed’s men at daybreak and begin the journey to Widow’s Watch. The men stay back a bit, just enough to not intrude as the brothers talk amongst themselves.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to ask you something,” Robb says offhandedly. Jon raises an eyebrow but keeps his gaze forward, watching as Ghost sniffs along the side of the path before racing ahead of them.

“What’s that?”

“Did father…did he ever tell you?”

“Tell me…you mean about my mother?” Jon asks, frowning over at him. Robb nods sheepishly.

“I just…I know mother wondered and he never told her. I just wondered if he ever told _you_.”

“He didn’t,” Jon shakes his head wistfully. “When we left together that day, just before we split ways – me for the Wall and he for King’s Landing – I asked him. I wanted something of this illusive woman who gave birth to me.” Jon sighs. “I wanted a name, a place, _anything_.”

“He refused?” Robb asks.

“He told me that the next time he saw me, after I’d taken my vows, we’d talk about my mother. And then Joffrey Baratheon beheaded him and he took my mother’s name with him.”

“I’m sorry,”

“Don’t be,” Jon shrugs and then smiles softly at Robb. “I never…I mean, I had you and Arya – _you_ were my family. Father was there, guiding me. Looking back, I can’t imagine knowing her name would have changed anything. It wouldn’t somehow make her appear and care for me the way Lady Stark cared for all of you.”

“She should have,” Robb insists. “She _should_ have loved you, or at least tried. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I imagine it was easier for her to hate me than it was for her to hate him. Father was Lord Stark, heir to Winterfell. He had done the honorable thing by bringing his bastard son home with him to Winterfell. He never really thought about how it would truly affect Lady Stark. So, _I_ thought about how it affected her every day.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Robb comments.

“No, it doesn’t,” Jon agrees. “But your mother did what she could, despite everything. She honestly _wanted_ to be a good woman. You told me yourself that she had promised she would love me like a mother. I don’t blame her for not being able to feel for me the way she did about her own flesh and blood.”

“You’re _my_ blood,” Robb grins at him. Jon smiles back at him and the day’s journey continues in their easy companionship.

∞

The woman frowns, staring at her reflection in the rusting mirror before her. Her red hair frames her narrow face the same way it always had. Her red dress hugs her body in all the right places, the way it always had. She’s getting too old to be as emotionally charged as she is. Jon Snow hadn’t sent a letter, hadn’t asked for her help, and it was driving her mad with just how much she needed to be at Winterfell. Jon needed her counsel if he was to win the war for the Lord of Light.

Davos was likely the reason he refused to write back. Davos, who had refused to see reason no matter what the Lord of Light showed him. Davos, who couldn’t see past his own human emotions to the bigger issues at hand. Davos, who Jon trusted as his advisor over Melisandre, the woman who brought him back to life with the help of the Lord of Light.

Her things are packed and her horse is saddled. She knows that she needs to get to Winterfell, even if she must fight Lord Davos to get Jon Snow’s ear on the matter. He needed to see the truth and to see the reasons for needing her in the flames; only then could he truly understand why she needed to be there.

Decided, the Red Woman made her way down the steps of the small keep she had been residing in and gets atop her horse, knowing that the sooner she got to Winterfell, the sooner the Lord’s prophecy could be known.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly am so excited for all the reunions in the next two seasons. Who are YOU excited to see get reunited?


	9. Interlude: Long Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole bunch of plot details and whatnot, I suppose. I was so desperate to update that I didn't even have time to proofread, so please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes!

_He’s walking through a gorgeous garden, surrounded by guards wearing yellow coats and head scarves. The woman on his arm is beautiful, dressed in a blue dress that sways around her slim frame as she helps him up the steps. The pain in his legs is unbearable, and Jon wonders what could possibly be afflicting him, as he speaks to the woman on his arm._

_“I always envied Oberyn. He lived. He_ truly _lived. He sailed around the world, fought men from every country, lay with the most beautiful women alive.”_

_“And men,” the woman adds._

_“And men,” Jon smiles. “He experienced everything, while I sat here in Dorne, trying my best to keep my people alive and well-fed. But that is life. We each have our roles.” The woman helps him into a wheelchair carefully. “Oberyn was born to be an adventurer. And I was born to rule.”_

_The woman smiles softly down at him, “The gods are not fools. You would have been a lousy adventurer, and Oberyn…” she turns to look at a man in tan robes ascending the steps beside them. “He would have been a terrible ruler.”_

_Jon turns to look at a young girl who shares similar features to the woman he had been speaking with. “Your mother is a brilliant woman, you know that?” The girl smiles and nods politely._

_“Prince Doran,” the man who had climbed the steps offers Jon a small scroll. Jon unrolls it and reads it curiously. His eyes flick across the parchment and he says, stunned, “The Princess Myrcella,”_

_A sense of dawning realization hits Jon as he looks suddenly to where the younger girl had been standing in time to see her pull out a knife and stab one of the guards in the back. The man falls and Doran stares in shock. The first woman removes her own blade and jabs him in the chest. The man in tan robes startles and turns to flee, but the girl removes the blade from the guard’s back and throws it, hitting the maester and killing him._

_Jon weakly tries to fight the woman, but finds he can only fall forward in agony._

_“When was the last time you left this palace?” The woman demands. She waves at the guards just standing around. “You don’t know your own people. Their disgust for you. Ellia Martell, raped and murdered and you did nothing. Oberyn Martell butchered, and you did nothing. You’re not a Dornish man, and you’re not their prince.”_

_“My son,” Jon gasps as he bleeds out onto the stone ground. “Trystane – “_

_“Your son is weak,” the woman says with a scoff. “Just like you; and weak men will never rule Dorne again.”_

_Jon’s body goes limp and suddenly he’s seated at a desk, painting a rock to look like an eye; a distinct ritual of the Seven for funerals. Behind him, the door creaks as it opens and he sighs._

_“I told you, I’m not hungry.”_

_“We’re not here to feed you.” Jon turns to see two girls dressed in leather armor and thick skirts smiling at him. He sets down his paint brush and stands as one moves to circle him. “We’re here to kill you.”_

_“You want her to do it?” The other girl asks. “Or me?”_

_“You’re family; I don’t want to hurt you,” Jon says to the girls. The first girl, holding a spear, laughs smugly. The second, holding a whip is not deterred._

_“Her, or me?” She demands again. Jon lifts his sword and unsheathes it angrily._

_“You,” he says, pointing the blade at the girl with the whip._

_“Good,” she says, crouching slightly and flicking her whip._

_“Smart boy,” the girl with the spear smiles condescendingly at him. Jon moves to stand before the girl with the whip, ready to fight, when a sharp pain pierces his head and –_

 Jon’s eyes snap open to show the dying fire and the lightly falling snow. He can feel Robb tucked against his back underneath the furs. It makes him feel better knowing that Robb is there, that he _can_ be there because they have the excuse of needing warmth.

“A dream?” Robb’s lips brush against his neck as the words are whispered. Jon turns slightly to look at him and nods slowly. “Who?”

“The prince of Dorne,” Jon whispers to him, turning fully so he can look at Robb’s face. “And his son.” He frowns. “Also, there was a letter about Myrcella Baratheon being poisoned. I think it was the same woman who stabbed me – I mean, the Dornish prince.”

“Doran Martell,” Robb frowns. “I can’t remember his son’s name.”

“Trystane,” Jon comments, remembering what he had said as he was bleeding out. Robb nods thoughtfully.

“The Martells _hate_ the Lannisters.”

“Why?” Jon asks. Robb chuckles softly.

“You never did pay much attention to Maester Luwin. Elia Martell, Doran Martell’s sister, was married to Rhaegar Targaryen when Rhaegar kidnapped Aunt Lyanna. It was a slight on their family name, which made the Martells hate the Targaryens. But then, when the Lannisters overran the Mad King in King’s Landing, Ellia Martell was raped and murdered, and her children were slaughtered.”

“ _Seven hells,_ ” Jon hisses and Robb nods. “The Lannisters did that?”

“Gregor Clegane did it, and he was under the command of Tywin Lannister, so the Martells knew that someone had to have given him the order.”

“I doubt it,” Jon murmurs, finding himself relaxing more into Robb’s arms.

“Why?” Robb questions.

“Talking with Sansa, it seems that the Mountain often did whatever he wanted and the Lannisters rarely took notice. Perhaps that’s enough of a reason to blame the Lannisters – for _not_ doing something – but I think it’s possible that the Tywin Lannister might have had no knowledge of it until after their deaths. I mean, Robert Baratheon _hated_ the Targaryens, so isn’t it just as likely that Robert allowed it to happen?”

Robb considers this with a small wrinkle in his brow. Jon reaches forward and strokes his fingers gently there, smoothing out the cold skin. Only then does he realize that neither he nor Robb are covered by the furs on the bed, wearing only their riding clothes and Jon’s cloak tugged over the top of them. Jon’s skin appears to be keeping them both warm enough.

∞

A knock on the door jolts Sansa from a dreamless sleep. She sits up in the bed and smooths her fingers through her fiery hair before glancing at Arya’s slack, sleeping face next to her. She carefully crawls out of the bed and hugs her arms around herself before tiptoeing to the door and unlatching it.

On the other side of the door stands a skinny boy, no older than thirteen, with a dirty face and wayward brown curls. He holds up his arm that has a long, grey dress draped over it. Sansa hesitantly grabs it and stares at the young boy.

“The king wishes to speak with you while you break fast. Wear that, and make sure you’re presentable.” The boy then turns and stomps away without waiting for her response. Sansa frowns as she closes the door, turning to hold up the dark gray dress for inspection. She moves further into the room and lays the dress at the end of the bed before slowly undressing. She carefully pulls on the dress and ties it around her waist. The clasp on the belt is the sigil of the Iron Islands and Sansa takes a shaky breath as she clicks it into place. The dress sits on her frame like smooth armor, though it dips almost scandalously low on her chest. It makes her think of Margaery’s wardrobe in King’s Landing.

Moving towards a mirror on a nearby desk, she sits down to begin braiding her long hair. The contrast of her red hair and the dark dress might have been exciting if she weren’t so troubled by what Euron Greyjoy wanted to discuss with her. She remembers stories she was told of the man when she was much youngers – how she often compared Theon’s behavior in Winterfell before the war to the stories of his uncle.

Careful not to wake Arya, Sansa laces her boots swiftly and strides out of the chambers to find two guards waiting for her. They turn without a word and lead her back to the hall they had met Euron  in the previous day.

Euron Greyjoy is seated at the head of the long table, a feast of breads and seafood scattered across the length of the iron table. He smiles smugly at Sansa as she enters and makes a show of looking her over before nodding in approval. He motions for her to take the seat to his immediate right, and she does.

“Sansa,” Euron greets her as she situates herself at the table.

“Eu – Your Grace,” Sansa ducks her head, catching herself on addressing the man who has declared himself King of the Iron Islands.

“The dress looks stunning on you,” he tells her. “Fits you like a glove.”

“It’s very kind of you, Your Grace,” Sansa replies as Euron lifts a pitcher with the kraken engraved on it and fills up her cup with dark red wine. At the same time, a young servant girl plates an array of seafood and a piece of crumbling bread before her.

“Tell me, Sansa,” Euron begins, drawing out her name casually. “What was it like to be married to the Bastard of the Dreadfort? I’ve heard many stories about Bolton’s bastard, and I _certainly_ know what he did to my nephew.”

“Ramsay was…” Sansa isn’t sure how to finish the sentence, so it sits in the air between them. Euron raises an eyebrow at her and she swallow thickly, reaching forward to grab her cup and taking a long drink of the bitter wine.

“I imagine it must have been hard for you.” Euron tells her. “I mean, first married to the Imp, then married to that sadistic fuck, I can imagine you’ve rethought your childish notions of love and marriage.”

Sansa finds herself overwhelmingly uncomfortable with the conversation, and she decides it would be best to simply leave his statement unanswered. Euron isn’t deterred by her silence.

“You see, I expected for a long while that by the time Theon came of age and you’d had your first blood, that there would be a betrothal between you two. I mean, how _else_ would my dear brother have gotten his only surviving son to come back to him to rule the Iron Islands?” Euron laughs, drinking from his wine languidly. “But then you were taken to marry Joffrey Baratheon, and, well, what was dear Theon to do? Apparently, become such a fucking useless Greyjoy that he’d unsuccessfully try and capture the only childhood home he had and then get his cock chopped off.

“But _you_ , you couldn’t possibly marry Joffrey Baratheon after your father was labeled a traitor and subsequently beheaded. The marriage to Tyrion Lannister _was_ quite a surprise.” Euron laughs again. “Tell me, what is it like to fuck a dwarf?”

Sansa shifts in her seat, her mouth suddenly dry. “Tyrion…he never…”

“Never touched you?” Euron looks surprised. “Why ever not?”

“I was a child, Your Grace. Only fourteen,”

“So?”

Sansa opens her mouth, but no words come out. Euron waits a moment and then sighs, setting his cup down.

“I suppose that’s a discussion for a later day. Now, I’d like to discuss business.”

“Yes?” Sansa blinks at the sudden change of subjects.

“I’m willing to consider helping your bastard of a brother with his little war with what he claims are white walkers – but it comes with a price.”

“A price,” Sansa repeats, feeling dread settle like a stone in her stomach.

“You see, he wouldn’t possibly be able to call himself King in the North anymore, of course, but he could have a little claim to royalty when you become my bride.”

“I become – what?” Sansa stares at him in shock and Euron smirks at her.

“In exchange for my men, you will become my bride and your half-brother’s men will help me defeat the Lannisters and take King’s Landing.”

“I – Your Grace, I don’t think – “

“What?” Euron demands, his eyes flashing dangerously. “This is the deal we are making, Sansa Stark-Lannister-Bolton or whatever the fuck it is you’re calling yourself these days. There will be no further negotiations: these are my terms. You will become my wife, your brother’s men will swear fealty to me, and I will help you win the war against the dead.”

He fixes her with a hard stare and Sansa hesitates. As a young girl, all she had ever wanted was to be married to royalty, to have royal children, to be seen as a queen someday. Now, she can think of no greater horror than being forced to marry as a political pawn.

She nods her head and Euron grins at her.

“Then we have a deal,” he says, lifting his cup to her and taking a long drink.

∞

They reach the coast of Flint by midday on their fourth day of hard riding. The snow has fallen consistently, and Flint appears to just now be getting the changing winter winds. Jon, Robb, and Howland Reed’s men make their way towards the front gates of House Flint and are greeted with men carrying the symbol of blue fields strewn with white caps.

“Lord Snow,” the man says, obviously recognizing Jon from when Jon and Sansa had come. Robb steps forward before Jon can reply.

“Your Grace, not lord,” Robb tells them. “Now let us pass.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are?” The guard spits at Robb.

“I’m Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and I’m telling you to let us through.”

“Robb Stark died years ago, lad – “

“Aye, I did,” Robb nods, glaring at the man through the gate. “But now I’m back, and I demand to see your lord.”

“M’Lord won’t – “

“ _Will_ see us,” Robb promises. The guard hesitates before slowly unlocking the gate and swinging the doors open so that they may ride through. The Flint Fortress of Widow’s Watch is a huge building made of grey stone, covered in moss, yet its courtyard is unbelievably quiet. Their horses clomp through the muddy soil, Ghost trotting just ahead of the convoy.

A woman in a shimmering gray dress steps out of the castle to stare at them. She’s tall, with dark blonde hair near her waist in curls, her skin pale white and smooth like marble. As they get closer, she takes another step forward.

Jon pulls his horse to a stop before her and she looks up at him, squinting in the bright light of falling snow and cloud cover. She looks from Jon to the rest of the group, her eyes finally falling to rest on Robb, his horse just behind Jon’s.

“Robb Stark,” she breathes, her voice raspy and lower than Jon had expected it to be.

“Lady Flint,” Robb ducks his head to her and slides off his horse. Jon and the rest of the group follow.

“Your Grace, I did not – “

“I’m not a king,” Robb shakes his head at her. He tips his head to Jon. “He is.”

“He…” Lady Flint turns to observe Jon for a moment before she frowns back at Robb. “Lord Snow has already come here once asking for fealty. He is no king – “

“He is King of the North, Jon Stark, granted his name by myself.” Robb cuts her off sharply. “If you would be so kind, we enquire as to where we might find Lord Flint.”

The woman hesitates, obviously just as unsure as the guards before, before she bows her head and turns for them to follow her inside the walls of House Flint.

∞

The ship sways with each small wave that knocks into it, but Theon pays no mind to it. He had purchased the small one-man sailboat in the free city of Pentos two days earlier and had been sailing since. He could just make out the coastline of the rest of Westeros on the horizon and suspected he’d arrive before twilight.

The days before reaching Pentos had been filled with extensive riding, trying to make it as soon as possible. The little food he’d managed to pack was long gone, but being on the sea allowed him to spear his own food easily. It was nice, being on his own and deciding which paths to take, what direction to go, when he wanted to eat. He had missed the subtle independent choices many people took for granted. Even after getting to Pyke, Theon had followed Asha’s demands in the hopes that she wouldn’t cast him aside as useless, as a stupid, wretched little creature that crawled his way through snow and salty seas to get back home.

It was nice to not be following in Asha’s shadow day in and day out. He loved his sister dearly, was grateful for her continued protection, and he genuinely wanted her to be queen of the Iron Islands, but she was a nuisance on a good day and an utter bitch at her worst.

Both nights he had spent at sea had seen him awoken to imagined shouts of Ramsay in his ear, or of the awful sound Myranda had made when she hit the ground at Winterfell, or the horrible whimpers Sansa had made on her wedding night. The sounds of swords clanging and screams. Theon thinks he’ll never _not_ hear the sounds of the Dreadfort, of Moat Cailin, of Winterfell under Ramsay’s command.

It was on the seas that he prayed for the first time. Not necessarily prayers to the Drowned God, because he no longer even knew if he _believed_ in such a god, but to anyone who might hear him. He prayed to make it to Winterfell, to be of use, that it wasn’t a trick – that Robb Stark was _alive_ and _well_ and _whole_.

He hits land just as the sun is setting in the west. It’s a small port city on the opposite side of Runestone. Here, Theon uses the last bits of coin in his pockets to buy a horse and a few loaves of bread. It will have to do for the coming ride to Winterfell.

∞

“I’ve been trying to learn as much as I can, but I have a long ways to go,” Robb admits to Lord Harlyn Flint, a man nearing the end of his third decade, only slightly taller than Robb with dark hair and guarded green eyes. Jon had, for the most part, let Robb take the lead since Lord Flint had wanted nothing more to do with Jon the last time he had visited Flint.

“I’m certain you have the gist of it, Lord Stark,” Flint tells Robb at the stone table which they are all seated around, plates of food before them. “Shortly after your own death, Joffrey Baratheon died, then Tywin Lannister, Prince Martell, and your brother here finished off the Boltons.”

“Your king,” Robb corrects shortly. He’d been doing so the entire evening, trying to get Lord Flint to understand.

“Yes, you keep saying, but it makes no difference to me. Call him King in the North, call him Jon Stark, call him whatever you like. Jon _Snow_ will forever be the traitor, Ned Stark’s bastard. He has _no_ claim to the Iron Throne, he has – “

“I don’t _want_ the Iron Throne!” Jon exclaims angrily over the top of him. Lord Flint turns his glare to Jon. “We have much bigger problems than Cersei Lannister in the south. Regardless of your belief or not, the White Walkers are coming and they have an army much greater than any of ours.”

“And you want me to offer Flint’s men to your cause?” Lord Flint demands, looking between the two brothers. “My men fought for you, Robb Stark, and before that, they were loyal to your father and Robert Baratheon. Everyone House Flint has put its trust in has led to more bloodshed than the last, and I will not stand for it.”

“Oh, do shut up, dear,” comes the voice of a woman in her fifth decade, striding into the room slowly. Her graying hair falls just past her shoulders in ringlets and she wears heavy jewels around her wrists and neck.

“Mother – “

“I am Lady Flint,” the woman states firmly, sitting down in the seat left open beside Harlyn. “I’ve had about enough of letting my son try and dictate the laws of this house.”

“I am Lord of House Flint,” her son argues.

“And your father must be rolling in his grave at your tone of voice with our king – regardless of which one of you is calling yourself king this time.” She winks at Robb and Jon. “I’ve heard the words of that little girl in Bear Island, and I agree. House Flint has always looked to House Stark and _you_ ,” she scowls at her son, “will not disrespect our house by disrespecting them now.”

“They want our men to fight some imaginary – “

“And why do you say it is imaginary?” She demands of her son. “Jon Snow – or Stark, whichever – says that many men have seen the White Walkers and I tend to believe him.” She turns back to give her full attention to Robb and Jon. “We have eight thousand men who have been waiting to fight in this war once again since my husband was killed at the Red Wedding.”

∞

_Jon squints as the rain falls in heavy sheets over the rocks before him, the storm making it hard to see more than a foot in front of him. He makes his way cautiously across the shaky bridge connecting the fortress upon one stone with another. It sways dangerously from side to side as the wind whistles around him. He slips slightly and grabs hold of the handrail to settle himself. It is then that he becomes aware of another figure standing on the bridge wearing a dark coat with a hood. Jon stares at it through the worsening rain and fog._

_“Let me pass,” Jon says, his voice old and angry. The figure makes no reply. “You fool, move aside for your king!” Balon Greyjoy, Jon thinks, but that would mean –_

_“Haven’t I always, brother?” The figure states simply in a low, raspy voice before he reaches up and pushes back his hood to reveal a man in his third decade, short hair dark with rain water and a small beard caressing the lower half of his relatively handsome face. Jon registers this must be Theon’s uncle Euron, the only other of Balon’s siblings to still be alive._

_“I thought you’d be rotting under some foreign sea by now,” Jon comments darkly, unimpressed by what he assumes is his brother’s decision to remain aloof._

_“What is dead may never die,” Euron replies. Jon makes no move to respond, and he lifts his head slightly to say, “Has the custom changed since I’ve been gone? Aren’t you supposed to repeat the words?”_

_“You can mock our god without my help,” Jon spits back._

_“I don’t mock the Drowned God,” Euron says, rolling his eyes as he moves closer to Jon/Balon. “I_ am _the Drowned God. From Oldetown to Qarth, when men see my sails, they pray.” A large gust of wind blows through and Jon grips the rope on both sides to steady himself. When it settles, he drops his hands back down to his sides and stares at Euron, who laughs._

_“You’re old, brother. You’ve had your time. Now let another rule.”_

_“I heard you lost your mind during the storm on the Jade Sea. They tied you to the mast to keep you from jumping overboard.”_

_“They did.”_

_“And when the storm passed, you cut out their tongues.”_

_“I needed silence,” Euron replies casually, smiling. Balon’s body rages with disgust._

_“What kind of an Iron Born loses his senses during a storm?”_

_“I am the storm, brother.” Euron moves closer still. “The first storm and the last. And you’re in my way.”_

_Jon reaches quickly for his knife and lunges for Euron, but his brother is quicker, and he’s suddenly plummeting down through the rain and fog to the whitecaps below –_

Jon gasps awake and sits up straight. Robb is still not beside him, having stayed behind to continue talking to Lady Flint long after the rest had retired.

Balon Greyjoy was dead. Had likely been dead for some time, which meant that –

“Sansa,” Jon whispers to himself, horrified. He leaps from the bed and quickly begins dressing.

 

“How much debt would you say the Lannisters are in?” Robb asks, staring at Lady Flint.

“Many millions of gold by now, I suspect.” The older woman shrugs. “In war, it’s often the expenses and not the armies who end it. Without money, people in the capital are starving, they're having less children, they're fleeing in all directions in fear.”

“And what about Cersei Lannister?”

“She’s been a thorn in Westeros’ side since the very beginning of her marriage to Robert Baratheon. Now her husband and children are dead and she’s blown up half her city. People are terrified of her.”

“Do you think they would side with Jon if it came to it?”

“I don’t know,” Lady Flint tells him honestly. “After the explosion at the sept, Olenna Tyrell aligned herself with House Martell and they’ve dedicated their resources to backing Daenerys Targaryen. She would be the biggest challenge facing your brother if it came to war with Cersei Lannister.”

Robb nods with a deep frown as he takes in this new information. Suddenly, the door to the hall bangs open and Jon strides through quickly, his curls wild around his pale face, and he looks very grim.

“Robb,” Jon says urgently, coming to kneel right before him. Robb turns into him immediately, forgetting about the watching eyes of Gretta Flint as he cups Jon’s burning face.

“What is it?”

“Balon Greyjoy is dead,” Jon tells him quickly. “Which means we’ve just sent Sansa into a warzone.”

“Balon Greyjoy –“ Robb gapes down at Jon in shock. “How –“

“Euron Greyjoy pushed him from a bridge on Pyke. Robb, we need to go back to Winterfell immediately. Sansa is in danger.”

“Of course,” Robb nods quickly and pulls Jon to his feet. He turns to Lady Flint. “Please excuse us, My Lady, as we will need to leave tonight.”

“Of course,” Gretta Flint stands and nods sternly to them both. “Take whatever provisions you may need. I will oversee the preparations for our troops and they will head for Winterfell within the fortnight. Of that, you have my word.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Robb nods to her gratefully before allowing Jon to pull him swiftly out of the great hall.

∞

The quickest way to get punched in the face is to walk directly into a brothel, stand in the middle, call the room to attention, and ask if anyone would like to fight.

Without fail, some drunken fool who was at the time attempting to get his cock wet with some common whore will stand, offer his fist to one’s face, and before long the entire brothel will be one large pile of rage and masculine energy.

Of course, he knew all this going into it, and he had known exactly what would happen, and so the first punch to his face was expected and therefore dodge-able. Things after that tend to get rather tricky, but he figures he’s learning by each fist and boot he dodges and each fist and boot that leaves its mark.

He ducks the initial punch, grabs the fist of the second punch and twists the arm, using the momentum to swing his own body around to kick the face of the third man, before flipping the second man and headbutting the fourth.

The fifth man kicks him squarely in the chest and he heaves in air as he tries to resituate. He manages to take ahold of the man’s rather long braid and rip his head to the side before his own foot finds its way to the man’s Adam’s apple. He goes down rather hard after that.

Brothel fights had become something a specialty for him, mainly because they were a way to hone one’s own abilities without the awareness of others – they were too drunk to realize that they were playing directly into his hands.

After this particular fight, he makes his way out past pissed men lying in the alley and whores snickering to one another. He dabs carefully at his bloody nose and limps back towards his own small shop three streets over.

Once inside, he undresses and looks over his bruises, analyzing each moment of the fight and determining where he’d gone wrong, what needed improvement, and what needed adjustment. It was his ritual after each fight – one cannot get better without first recognizing what one had yet to learn.

Suddenly, a cry from out in the streets catches his attention and he makes his way slowly to his door, cracking it open enough to peer out at the darkening streets. A group of about ten to fifteen men and women are standing around a fire, chanting “King in the North! King in the North!”

It is a cry no one has heard since Robb Stark was killed at his uncle’s wedding some years earlier. The King in the North was dead, a joke in the capital, nothing more than another usurper.

“What the bloody fuck is that?” An old woman from next door demands, standing in a similar position to him.

“Don’t know,” he mutters.

_“King in the North! King in the North!”_

“Didn’t you hear?” Another voice pipes up, this time a girl of about fifteen who had been passing by their doors. “Ned Stark’s bastard son has retaken the North from the Boltons with his sister. They’re calling him King in the North, like his brother.”

“Jon Snow?” He asks, staring hard at the young girl. She blushes under his attention.

“Aye,”

He closes the door a minute later, the chanting of the people still ringing in his head. He thinks about Jon Snow and what he had known of him. He’d certainly heard all about the former Hand of the King – two of them, actually, but he tries not to think about it – and he thinks about Robb Stark’s rebellion against Tywin Lannister many years passed. Now they were all dead, rotting in the ground with the rest of them, and he wonders why the people in King’s Landing are so eager to rejoice in Jon Snow’s victory.

Then, slowly, it dawns on him. Tywin Lannister is dead, the Boltons defeated, Walder Frey murdered. If there was a chance for someone new, a bastard of the North overthrowing everything that the Lannisters had thrown down on them, this was it. This was the only time it might be possible, and the people of King’s Landing needed _something_ to hope for these days.

He thinks back to the way she had spoken of Jon Snow, of how she had told him about her little sword and about his strength and loyalty. He’s been looking for her for a long time.

Gendry knows that if Arya Stark is anywhere to be found, it’s likely with her brother at Winterfell.

 


	10. Interlude: Making Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, okay, I finally got another chapter.  
> Unfortunately, it is another filler. I SWEAR the next one will have a lot more Jon/Robb, and that this story WILL get going somewhere good soon.  
> Thanks for all the wonderful comments and support I've received. You guys are awesome!

 

_Winterfell’s halls are all ablaze, dark smoke twisting into the wintery air and rising, rising, rising until they seem to dissipate into the snow that falls towards the land below. The flames lick up the hay in the stables and burn the hilts of weapons. People are screaming, calling for help._

_Amongst them all, a figure emerges from the fire._

Bran tries to remember the last time he’d sat at a real table, handled a real spoon, eaten something he (or, Meera, as it were) hadn’t had to kill and cook. The soup isn’t of the highest quality, but it’s warm and has a little meat, and Bran soaks in the fact that for the first time in a very long time, he’s back on the right side of the Wall.

“Where is Jon?” Bran asks once they’ve finished eating. Meera and he had been slowly learning about the men who had come to rescue them. The current Lord Commander was a man named Edd, with lanky brown hair and a dark sense of humor. Then there was Shiloh, a man from Tarth who had only been at the Wall for a few days before the battle with the Wildings a while ago, something they’d recounted to Bran and Meera at dinner. Third was Connar, a man of about forty, with greying hair and long features. He didn’t speak much, but he seemed friendly enough.

“Ah, yes,” Edd nods slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. Bran tracks the movement curiously as Edd pulls his thoughts together. “You see, your sister Sansa showed up with some guards, and Jon took her and some of our men and the Wildlings, and went to war to get Winterfell back from the Boltons.”

“He _what_?” Bran exclaims, startling Meera next to him who scowls darkly.

“He won, your brother did.” Edd says. “Jon is at Winterfell right now with your sister and a bunch of other houses. They’re trying to pull together a real army.”

“To do what?” Meera asks.

“To fight the White Walkers.” Edd hesitates. “How long you been on the other side of the Wall?”

“Long enough,” Bran sighs. “What is it they think they can do about the White Walkers? Have any of you ever faced them before?”

“Watch it, boy,” Connar snaps suddenly from the corner he’d taken as his resting place. “You may have survived some months North of ‘ere, but that don’t mean you know what we’ve seen or done.”

“We know what the White Walkers can do, Little Lord,” Edd assures Bran slowly. “For right now, we need to focus on getting you to your brother and sister.”

“When do you think we’ll leave for Winterfell?” Meera asks.

“Hopefully within the next few nights – who knows how much time we can stay here at all. The Night’s Watch has always vowed to protect the Wall, but…it might no longer be possible.”

∞

_Jon steps from his spot behind the wall to look into a small room. On the ground lies a woman, crumpled and bleeding – already dead from a slit throat – and Arya, grown up but still very small, staring down at the body in horror._

_“If you would’ve done your job,” Jon begins with a woman’s voice, a hint of smugness hidden behind layers of disdain for Arya. “She would’ve died painlessly.”_

_Arya stares at Jon/the woman in disbelief. Jon takes a step towards her and she slowly retreats, never taking her eyes off Jon._

_“Instead,” Jon continues, walking forward and spreading his arms wide to show that he’d had to do what had to be done. The woman on the floor…Jon/the woman had_ killed _her?_ Arya _was supposed to have killed her? “The Many-Faced God was promised a name. He must always receive what is His. You can’t change that, I can’t change that; no one can.” Jon pauses, his lips twitching. “And now He’s been promised another name.”_

_A beat of hesitation between them, and then suddenly Arya turns tail and launches herself over the ledge of the balcony. Jon turns and rushes down the stairs of the living quarters until he makes it out onto the streets below. He looks to his left and sees Arya sprinting through a line of people going about their days. He pursues her._

_They race through the cleaning quarters before turning down a steep staircase used as a back alley for merchants. Arya throws herself beneath a cart that Jon launches himself over after her. The body Jon inhabits feels this is a pleasant game, nothing more than an extended child’s play that will soon come to an end. Arya turns a sharp corner, continuing down the alleyway, and by the time Jon follows, he can no longer see her. He continues marching down the alley, unperturbed by her absence. Jon – or more specifically, the body he inhabits –_ always _finds its catch._

_As gracefully as one of Winterfell’s stray cats, Jon leaps on top of a nearby barrel and climbs a few loose stones to get on top of the wall separating the alley from the market place. He pads silently across the stone surface of the thick wall and prowls, searching for his prey. He soon spots Arya walking swiftly through the crowd and runs for her atop the wall, leaping from the height and landing elegantly on the stones below with little effort. The crowd of people gasps as he shoves two people out of his way, smiling sharply at Arya whose eyes widen in fear as she once again takes off running._

_They run through people, leaping over merchants and their goods, before Arya suddenly dashes right off a ledge, landing in the midst of the fruit sellers down below. Arya rolls down the long flight of stairs, knocking all manner of fruits and food to the ground in the process to the chagrin of the merchants below. Jon smiles, making his way patiently down the stairs to watch the whole thing unfold._

_Arya lays at the bottom of the stairs in shock as Jon slowly approaches through the rush of angered sellers. She shakily touches at her stomach where a heavy amount of blood is seeping through her shirt. She stares over at Jon and quickly gets up, pulling herself over the edge of the stairs and into another back alley, this time much slower than before, leaving a trail of blood behind her. With no sense of urgency, Jon follows the trail until he finds Arya in a dark little alcove, a small living space she seems to be inhabiting._

_“It will all be over soon.” Jon promises. “On your knees, or on your feet?”_

_Arya breathes harshly, obviously in pain, and starts to stand. As she does, she pulls a sword out from beneath her makeshift mattress – it’s a sword Jon recognizes as the one she called Needle so many years ago. He can’t believe she still has it._

_“Haven’t we been through this already?” Jon demands patiently. “That won’t help you,” he points to the sword with the small dagger in his hand. He then strides confidently forward as Arya appears to center herself. With practiced ease, Jon lunges forward at the same time Arya winds back. The small dagger misses its mark and suddenly the sword comes down on Jon’s arm. He shouts in frustration more than pain and tosses the dagger to his other hand, aiming for Arya’s already-bleeding stomach, but then the sharp blade of Needle cuts through his neck and slides all the way through. Jon coughs blood and drops –_

He wakes to find Robb is already beginning to pack their things. They had camped the night before as they raced to get back to Winterfell to try and come up with a plan to make sure Sansa and Brienne were safe, and so they camped in the middle of the woods, surrounded by a thick fog and a sharp winter frost.

Robb glances at him and then kneels down beside him as Jon tries to shake himself into wakefulness.

“Did you dream?” Robb asks and Jon nods unsteadily.

“Arya…”

“Arya?” Robb frowns deeply down at him.

“Someone was chasing her, trying to kill her, and Arya killed them instead… I don’t know why she was being chased, but – it was all so strange. She’s so grown up.”

“It’s been a long time,” Robb sighs.

“Too long,” Jon nods.

“We need to get on the move again if we’re to make it to Winterfell within the week.”

“Right,” Jon nods, sitting up and climbing out from beneath the furs. He begins dressing and looks up to find Robb staring at him curiously. “What?”

“Aren’t you freezing?”

Jon looks down at himself. He didn’t wear a shirt to bed, had only needed the furs and even now, bare skin to the frozen air didn’t make him feel cold.

“No,” Jon shakes his head, frowning. Robb reaches out and brushes his fingers across Jon’s arms and his own frown deepens.

“You’re burning up again.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Jon sighs, continuing to dress. “As if I need another thing to worry about.”

“You feel fine, though?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s the least of our worries.” Robb scrubs tiredly at his face. “I can’t believe we stupidly sent Sansa to Pyke –“

“We couldn’t have known Balon Greyjoy was dead!”

“Yes, but even if he _wasn’t_ , it was still such an unwise idea to send her there. The Greyjoys wouldn’t send help for anything – they _hate_ us.”

“Theon is different now –“

“Balon Greyjoy never listened to _anything_ Theon had to say!”

“Okay,” Jon takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “This is getting us nowhere. We can worry, but I trust Brienne to make sure that Sansa is safe.”

“Do you?” Robb’s lips quirk anxiously. “I mean, Renly Baratheon, mother…she doesn’t have the greatest of records in protecting the people she’s sworn to.”

“Circumstances outside of her control are what caused both Renly and your mother’s deaths.” Jon points out. “Dark magic killed Renly Baratheon, and your mother sent Brienne away before…well, _before_.”

∞

“Lady Sansa, this is a foolish decision.” Brienne tells her sternly. Sansa sighs from where she is seated at a table beside the fire in her chambers, wearing yet another dress given to her by Euron Greyjoy. Arya stands at the large window looking out over the cliffsides, her face impassive and tense. She wears black breeches and a dark red tunic pulled tight around her skinny frame. Her hair is pulled back into a very tight bun, making her look much older than her sixteen years. Brienne is standing just inside the doorway, the door bolted behind her, her hand resting on the golden lion’s head handle of her sword, Oathkeeper. Sansa really ought to get a different handle for Brienne’s sword; despite Brienne’s insistence that Jaimie Lannister is not at all like Cersei, the people of the North continue to distrust the woman’s loyalty.

“I’m not sure what else you would have me do,” Sansa tells the woman. “Euron Greyjoy is not a man to be played with, and I have nothing to make a deal with beside myself.”

“You’re not pure, though,” Arya says suddenly, her sharp eyes flicking to her sister’s face. Sansa blushes slightly.

“No…but the Greyjoy’s have never cared about that. It’s my name he needs, not my virtue.”

Arya shudders in revulsion and goes back to looking out the window.

“Lady Sansa, if we could get a raven to your brothers –“

“What good would it do? Even if we managed to smuggle a letter to Jon and Robb, they would never be able to reach me before Euron either murders us all, or marries me.”

“Not the first time you’ve been secreted away from your husband,” Arya mutters, earning her a dark look from both Sansa and Brienne. Arya goes back to thinking while Sansa and Brienne continue to argue about the stupidity of Sansa’s marriage to Euron, but Arya tunes them out.

Sansa has had the help of others this entire time, whether it be for better or worse. Arya, on the other hand, has mainly had to fend for herself. With the Brotherhood, she’d had to make her own escape after they sold Gendry away. With the Hound, she’d made her own decisions to kill or not kill him, and she had managed to fend for herself and prove her worth to the burned knight. Afterwards, she’d made her own way to Braavos, into the House of Black and White and back out again nearly two years later. In Braavos, she had learned patience and the ability to see what others could not.

Sansa might not have seen an alternate option, but Arya knew what needed to be done.

 

Arya comes to a stop before the door to Euron Greyjoy’s bedchambers wearing a dark red, long dress that slips off the shoulder. Across her chest is bronze plating that accentuates what little breasts she does have. She wears dark riding boots laced up nicely and her hair falls in curls around her face. She’d stolen some rouge from Sansa and now had a lovely blush across her face, giving her a softer look.

She curtsied lowly to the two guards stationed outside of the room.

“I request to see King Greyjoy, if it pleases His Grace.” She says softly. One of the guards raps his knuckles on the door and after a moment, a voice calls for them to enter. The guard leads her inside.

“Lady Arya to see you, Your Grace,” the guard announces. Euron, who is sitting at a desk scribbling furiously across a piece of parchment, looks up and seems to startle at her appearance. After a moment, his smirk falls into place.

“Leave us,” Euron says sharply and the guard bows, turning and quickly exiting the room. The door shuts with an ominous click.

“Your Grace,” Arya says demurely, falling into a curtsy. Euron’s smirk widens.

“Lady Arya, what a pleasure to see you this evening.”

“I beg pardon, Your Grace, I simply needed a word with you.”

“Of course,” Euron motions for her to sit at a chair beside the desk he resides at and she does so, falling gracefully into the seat and blinking owlishly at him.

∞

The seal of a lion stares up at Petyr Baelish as he takes a deep breath. He slowly slides the band off the parchment and unrolls the scroll.

**TO THE PEOPLE OF WESTEROS**

**Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Regent of the Vale and former Master of Coin to His Majesties Robert Baratheon and Joffrey Baratheon, is WANTED on several counts of treason to the CROWN. Reward for bringing in Lord Baelish is 50,000 GOLD DRAGONS to the person or persons who obtain him for HER MAJESTY.**

**Signed, Qyburn, Maester of the Red Keep and Master of Whispers**

**At the order of Her Majesty, First of Her Name, Cersei Lannister, Queen of Westeros and Ruler of the First Men and the Andals**

Petyr stares down at the price: 50,000 gold dragons. Having been the master of coin for a long time before, he knows there can’t possibly be a way for Cersei to pay that sum to anyone. It doesn’t matter, though. The letter declares that he is wanted, and it does not specify if he is wanted dead or alive, which means he is no longer of importance to have alive for Cersei Lannister.

This makes things difficult. Sansa has refused to listen to a word he has said since the day she and her brother cast him aside in favor of their half-brother. Getting a marriage arranged between himself and Sansa becomes less likely each passing day, which puts him in a precarious thought. Robyn grows older in the Vale, and soon the knights will no longer be his to command.

He needs a new plan, and he needs it now.

∞

The area around Winterfell is filled with camps of all different sorts. Wildlings have split into tribes and are surrounded by Northern Lords and Ladies while they all attempt to live peacefully together. The closer to Winterfell one gets, the bigger Northern Houses appear, their sigils flying around tents in their house colors.

The Red Woman rides into the middle of the fray, though she looks nothing like her old self. For one, she wears not one ounce of red on her person besides the necklace around her throat covered by a white fur to fend off the cold. She wears a black dress wrapped tightly around herself, falling around her horse. Her hair is dyed black as well, framing her face in wild curls. She appears like any other noble lady, and since there are so many people around, everyone will assume she is from someone else’s camp.

She rides her horse through the camps and as she arrives closer to the gates, she worries about how to get inside. Davos will likely have her head if he sees her, of that she has no doubt. He is not a man easily swayed for the Lord’s cause, and therefore she must remain vigilant of him. Jon Snow, likewise, if in Davos’ presence, will make good on his threat. She has seen how it eats at him to hurt others, yet he is as honorable as his father, she has heard, and therefore will do what is right no matter the cost to himself.

No, she must find someone in the camps to help her. There must be a lord somewhere who needs to see the Lord’s Light and who will understand that she _must_ be at Jon Snow’s side for the war to come. Coming back to life does terrible things to a man’s soul, and she knows she can be the one to fill in the hole in poor Jon’s depths, if he would just let her.

Now that he no longer is the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he no longer has that sense of duty to keep the vows he’d said as a boy. As man and woman, they could make sure Jon became the King he was always meant to be, the King that the Lord of Light had told her about. She would have Jon, and she would be his as much in return.

She simply needed to get to his side, and the Lord would take care of the rest.

∞

Theon made sure he wore no sigil of House Greyjoy or of Pyke and made sure his hair was cut shorter and had some oil in it to appear darker. He wanted to be as least likely to be recognized as he could possibly be. He was hated in the North – for many good reasons – but Asha needs him to get to Jon. She is counting on him. Likewise, he misses Sansa and wants to make sure she is doing better than she had been with Ramsay.

He gets through the gates at Winterfell and a man about three decades his senior approaches him curiously.

“Who are you?” He demands with a thicker accent, similar to some he’d heard in Pyke before.

“I’m here to speak with Jon Snow,” Theon says quickly, knowing that he can’t tell anyone his name until he’s had a chance to speak to Jon.

“Jon Stark,” the man corrects instantly. “He’s been given a proper name. _And_ a proper title: King in the North.”

“Right,” Theon nods shakily. “I’ve heard that his…brother…that Robb is alive. I’d like to see him, as well.”

“His Grace and Lord Stark are not at Winterfell at the moment.” Theon deflates a little at that. “What’s your name?”

“I must speak to Jon Snow.” Theon repeats with a shake of his head. “When will he return?”

“Could be tomorrow, could be another week,” the man shrugs. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

“I’ve been sent to negotiate with Jon Sn– with Jon Stark and _only_ to him. Is there somewhere I can rest until he arrives back?”

“If you can find a space, it’s yours. We don’t exactly have a map of where everyone is stationed with their camps.” The man gives him a cautious once-over. “Have you come alone?”

“My…I have a deal to negotiate with…His Grace. Until then, I’d rather not say much.”

The man hesitates and then sighs heavily. “Fine, it’s not like many others want to talk, either. Just…be careful with the Wildlings. They’ll try to feed you stuff you’ve never seen before, and then Tormund will try to tell you about fucking a bear.”

The man shakes his head with an eyeroll and then turns and walks away. Theon frowns, not sure first why there are Wildlings at Winterfell being welcomed as if they were just some other house helping out, and second, who Tormund is, but he supposes this was easier than it could’ve been.

Of course, that’s when he hears barking that sends a chill down his spine. He turns and sees that two of Ramsay’s dogs are barreling towards him full-speed, and before he can let out a sound, they’ve leaped up on his chest and knocked him flat on his back. As he attempts to get his breath back, he comes face-to-face with Jez, staring down at him. Instead of bared teeth, however, Jez seems to visibly shift and then her slobbering tongue is licking all over Theon’s face before Kyra begins nuzzling uncomfortably into his stomach.

Apparently, they remember their former pack member.

∞

“I believe you are making a mistake, marrying my sister.”

“And why do you think that?” Euron asks curiously, his eyes flashing with amusement. Arya sighs endearingly and leans forward, as if to shed some secret.

“Sansa has been betrothed four times, wed twice, and no longer remains innocent of the world. All of her former suitors are either dead or have been called traitors, and I believe that marrying Sansa will only endanger your claim to the Salt Throne.”

“You do?” Euron seems to hesitate, thinking on what Arya has said.

“ _I_ however, am much more suited for the Iron Islands. I have the Stark name and I have travelled a lot in the years since my father was executed at the hands of the Lannisters. I’ve learned to fight, to run, to do many great things. The people of the Iron Islands need a queen who can fight and work as hard as they can. Sansa is more suited for castle life, but I can stand at your side, my King. I can be the queen you need.”

Leaning forward, Arya delicately lays her hand on Euron’s arm, squeezing gently and smiling sweetly. Euron’s eyes flick to her lips and Arya smiles a little wider.

“I can be what you need, Your Grace. I can be your _queen_.”

She leans all the way forward and kisses him softly. She goes to pull back after a moment but Euron’s hands grip her hair, pulling her flush against him and into his lap. Arya lets herself be held close as he attacks her lips with a vengeance. As she climbs astride him, her dress lifts enough for her fingers to grasp at the dagger tucked into a small holster at her thigh.

 

Sansa is braiding the last bit of her hair when the door opens with a bang and Arya rushes in. She’s wearing a red and bronze dress and her hair is curled, though it appears to be slightly mussed now. Her cheeks are blazing and she seems to be in a hurry as she dashes into the room and suddenly grabs Sansa by the arm.

“Get your things,” she says urgently. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Arya! What do you mean?” Sansa asks as Arya begins grabbing up their stuff.

“Don’t question! I will explain it to you later. Get Brienne and fetch the horses. I’ll meet you around back as soon as I can get us some supplies for our ride back.”

“Arya –“

“Sansa!” Arya grips her shoulders and shakes her slightly. “Please, just do this for me. I will tell you everything once we’re gone.”

Sansa nods unsteadily and begins grabbing the few things she has on the table before her. Once they’re tucked into her bag and Arya has gone off in search of the supplies, she knocks tentatively at Brienne’s door next to her and Arya’s. She opens right away with a concerned look.

“We need to leave. Now.” Sansa says, urging her to follow. Brienne doesn’t hesitate before gripping her sword and picking up the small bag she had with her. They make their way down silently through the dark halls of the castle until they make it to the stables where their horses are being held. The whole way, they hadn’t run into anyone who suspected they were leaving in a hurry. Sansa gets her own horse saddled while Brienne tends to Arya’s and her own.

They stand waiting for a long while before a figure rushes towards them from the dark outside, where it has begun to storm. The waves crash against the cliffside violently. Wearing Arya’s red and bronze dress and a dark blue cloak, a young girl with a long, black braid down her back comes to a stop before Sansa and Brienne.

“Arya?”

“Yes,” the girl responds, winking. Sansa realizes she’s wearing someone else’s face, and that is how she’d been able to collect some food and things for their swift exit. Brienne helps them both into their saddles and then they take off into the dark.


	11. Racing Forward

It’s a twig snap that wakes him up.

Jaime sits up and reaches blindly for his sword, but he makes it no further before there’s a dagger at his throat and a mouth close to his ear.

“Now, if I’d’ve been an enemy, you’d be dead already.”

Jaime growls and elbows Bronn in the stomach to get him to release him. Bronn does, standing back up and smiling down smugly at him. Margaery and Loras rouse a few meters away at the commotion.

“What are you doing here?” Jaime demands.

“Coming to look for you, obviously.” Bronn rolls his eyes and then looks over at the Tyrell siblings. “I _was_ concerned about you possibly going on a suicide mission alone, but now that I see you’ve somehow found these two, I _know_ you’re on a suicide mission.”

“I am _not_ on a _suicide mission_ ,” Jaime argues, struggling to his feet. “I’m…”

“You’re…?” Bronn raises an eyebrow. Margaery sits up and looks over at Bronn. “Hiya, love,” Bronn greets her.

“Bronn,” Margaery blinks at him and after a moment, Bronn realizes who it is he’s staring at.

“Fucking _hells_ ,” he whips around to stare at Jaime. “You did _not_ –“

“I found them on my way out of King’s Landing.” Jaime says. “They’re coming with me. To Winterfell.”

“To Brienne, you mean,” Bronn replies knowingly.

“Brienne of Tarth?” Margaery asks in surprise. “That’s the friend you have at Winterfell?” Jaime nods.

“This is completely fucking mad, you know that?” Bronn demands, but he seems more excited than pissed off. “And you were going to do this without me?”

“I had no more promises to make you, Bronn. Besides, I hadn’t planned on bringing these two. I’d planned on going alone.”

“So Jon Snow could put a sword in your belly the moment you tried to step foot through the gates? Not bloody likely. I’m coming with you.”

“Bronn –“

“You won’t stop me, so don’t even try. I’ve had enough of Lannisters telling me what to do.”

“Loras,” Margaery moves to wake her brother and that’s when a piece of her dress slides away to reveal a prominent bump across her belly under a silk slip.

“Your Grace…” Jaime begins in shock, staring at her stomach. Margaery frowns over at him and then realizes what he’s looking at. She quickly throws a piece of her dress back over her stomach and places her hands above it protectively.

“You’re pregnant,” Bronn mutters. “Bloody fantastic.”

“Margaery?” Loras mumbles tiredly, turning to his side to squint up at her.

“We need to get ready to go, brother,” she tells him softly, brushing at his forehead gently. The swelling hasn’t gone done, and the wound looks an unnatural color.

“Okay,”

“Margeary,” Jaime says, still surprised. Margaery sighs and turns back to him.

“I hadn’t realized until a week after Cersei destroyed the Sept.”

“It’s Tommen’s?”

“Of _course_ it’s Tommen’s!” Margaery glares at him. “I don’t need to lie about my child’s heritage like your sister had to.” Silence descends over the group before Bronn bursts into laughter, his grin wide and unapologetic.

“Shut up.” Jaime snaps at the man. Bronn just keeps on laughing, and Jaime turns back to Margaery. “We need to get to Winterfell quickly.” Back to Bronn he says, “and I suppose you’re coming with me.”

“Just you bloody well try and stop me, you sorry excuse for a King’s Guard.”

∞

At the edge of the camps, Jon spots the flags of both House Ryswell and House Tallhart. He knows that he should stop by each one, personally thank the lords of those houses for joining his cause, but his thoughts are set only on getting Sansa and Brienne back in one piece. He and Robb separate with Howland Reed’s ten men at the edge of Reed’s camp, and Jon slides off his horse as soon as they are within Winterfell’s courtyard, handing the reigns to a stable boy, already looking around for Davos. The man is striding towards him across the snowy courtyard, smiling widely.

“Welcome back, Your Grace.” Davos greets him with a small bow. He nods to Robb. “My Lord,”

“Sir Davos,” Robb nods to him.

“Davos, we need to send men to Pyke straight away.” Jon cuts in quickly, his eyes serious and solemn. Davos frowns at him.

“But we already sent the Lady Brienne with your sister –“

“Theon likely isn’t _at_ Pyke. Euron Greyjoy killed Balon, and he’s very likely taken over the Iron Islands.”

“You…did you see this in one of your…dreams?” Davos asks cautiously. Jon nods and Davos sighs.

“I’ll try and gather some of the lords, see if we have men to spare on such short notice.” Jon nods to him again and Davos turns to leave before stopping and looking back. “Oh, and another man arrived a few days ago looking for you. Said he had to speak to you personally.”

“What’s his name?” Jon asks, pulling off his riding gloves with a frown. Robb knocks his boot against a nearby wooden post to dislodge ice and mud.

“He wouldn’t say,” Davos shrugs and then takes off. Jon sighs and looks over at Robb.

“Shall we?” Robb nods and they walk together into the main hall of Winterfell. They are greeted there by supping lords and ladies, all very happy to see them returned safely, and one of the Wildling men informs Jon that the man who came to speak to him is waiting in his study.

Jon and Robb make their way to their father’s old study and Jon swings the door open. Inside, a man with longish, white blond, curly hair is standing with his back to the door. Jon and Robb enter and slowly the man turns, revealing the long, scarred face of Theon Greyjoy.

“Theon,” Robb hisses. Theon jumps, staring in horror at Robb, his face gone completely colorless.

“Robb,” he breathes, and he quickly drops to his knees like a doll cut from its strings. Immediately, he starts rambling. “Please, please, don’t kill me. I never meant for anything like what happened to happen. _Drowned God_ , I never wanted it to happen! My father convinced me…and Asha wanted me to…and I was all mixed up inside. And then Bran and Rickon were here and they wanted to know what was going on…and I fucked it all up!” He’s outright sobbing at that point. “I never should have left your side! Balon Greyjoy was never my father – my father was the same man who you called your own. Ned Stark raised me better than Balon Greyjoy ever could. _Drowned fuck_ but I am so, so, so sorry –“

“Theon!” Jon snaps, cutting the man off. Theon’s jaw audibly clicks shut and he stares at Jon with wide, terrified eyes. Jon thinks of the boy he remembered Theon to be and realizes that Sansa was right – this is not the same man at all. “What are you doing here?”

“My sister sent me to offer our support to you.”

“Your support?” Jon’s frown deepens.

“Asha and I went east to the aid of Daenerys Targaryen, but then we heard that Robb was alive.” Theon looks at Robb like he still can’t quite believe the other man is truly standing there. Robb crosses his arms over his chest and remains silent. “Asha sent me to Winterfell to offer you our ships.”

“The ships you _already_ offered to the Targaryen girl?”

“Right,” Theon bites his lip and shifts awkwardly. “Our alliance with her was merely out of necessity. Our Uncle Euron –“

“I know,” Jon cuts him off and Theon blinks at him. “Did you know a fortnight ago Sansa left for Pyke to find you?”

“Sansa –“ Theon takes a shuddery breath. “No, she can’t have. That – no, not after everything!” He shakes his head anxiously and starts backing up until his back hits the wall behind him. “Oh no, no, no –“

“Theon!” Robb snaps finally and Theon curls in on himself miserably. “Theon.” Robb repeats, this time softer, moving to kneel before his old friend.

“We have to get her back.” Theon whispers urgently, his tone terrified. “We have to. Euron…what he could do to her –“

“Brienne of Tarth went with her, so at the very least she isn’t alone.”

“Another _woman_ ,” Theon remarks slowly. “You _know_ what the Iron Islanders think of women who are not _from_ the Iron Islands.”

“We know.” Jon assures him in frustration. “Which is why as soon as we discovered you were not, in fact, residing at Pyke, we came back from Widow’s Watch.”

“How did you find out about my uncle?”

Robb and Jon share a look – how well can they trust Theon with _anything_?

“It’s a long story,” Robb says finally. “For now, we need to decide how best to get her back safely. How well do _you_ know your Uncle Euron?”

“I’d heard he went crazy on a ship years ago. He killed my father so that he could be king, wanted to murder Asha and I.”

“Did you try to take the throne?” Jon asks him.

“No,” Theon shakes his head quickly. “No, I was supporting Asha’s claim to the throne.”

“Have the Iron Islands _ever_ had a queen lead them?”

“No, but neither had Westeros before Cersei Lannister crowned herself queen.”

“True,” Robb smiles slightly and stands, offering Theon a hand to help him up. After a beat, Theon hesitantly accepts it, and in doing so exposes the two missing fingers on his hand. Robb stares at it as Theon stumbles to his feet. “Theon,” he murmurs. Theon drags his hand away quickly and tucks it behind him.

“I need to go discuss further plans to get to Sansa with Davos.” Jon comments softly. “I’ll leave you two to speak.”

He grips Robb’s shoulder as he turns to leave, sharing a meaningful look with his brother, and then it is Robb and Theon alone for the first time in many years.

“When I…When Ramsay told me you were dead, I was so numb I couldn’t even really register it.” Theon admits after a long moment of silence. “By then, I had been held by him for so long I didn’t even remember my own name – I only knew that ‘Theon Greyjoy’ was a name I was never supposed to answer to.” He lifts up his hand slowly. “This is what happens when you disobey Ramsay Bolton.”

“And Ramsay Bolton is _dead_ now.” Robb says firmly. “Fed to his own hounds by my sister.”

Theon blinks up at him in astonishment. “Sansa…well, if anyone deserved to do it, it was her.” They fall into another bout of silence broken only when Theon lets out a whimper. Robb looks back at him and realizes he’s crying – Theon Greyjoy, the ward of Winterfell, the cocky, arrogant, asshole who Robb had grown up with, was _crying_.

“Theon?” Robb asks worriedly.

“I loved him.”

“You…” Robb stares at him in confusion, the other boy far too thin and pale and scarred.

“I loved him.” Theon repeats. “More than I valued my own life, more than I cared about anyone. I loved him, no matter how sick and twisted that makes me. I _mourned_ his _death_.” He’s openly crying now and Robb has no words to comfort him anymore. “He beat and tortured me until I broke and I _loved him_ for it. I praised him, wanted to please him, and despite knowing how _fucked_ it all was, I still love him. Even now.”

“It’s okay, Theon.”

“It’s _not_.” Theon spits. “It’s not okay, it’ll never be _okay_. I’m fucked up in the head and I’m never not going to be. I can’t eat without looking around to see if he’ll see me, I can’t lay down without worrying he’ll find me sleeping, I can’t go walking alone without looking over my shoulder in fear. I live in a constant state of bloody _fear_ , and yet the monster who did this to me is the only thing I can ever think about and _love_.”

“It’s okay, Theon.” Robb repeats.

“How can you _say_ that?”

“Because we don’t get to choose who we love, even if you were forced into it in the worst of situations.” Robb takes a deep breath. “And, Theon, no matter what we have done to one another, what happened to you was not what you deserved.”

“It _was_ –“

“It _wasn’t_ ,” Robb tells him firmly. “You are forgiven, you are safe, you are _free_ , and I will not judge you for how your heart feels.” He hesitates before explaining, “I love Jon, Theon.”

“I know, he’s your brother –“

“I love him as _more_ than my brother.”

He waits until Theon meets his gaze and finally sees the realization settle over his lost friend.

“Oh,” he says softly. Robb had expected the reaction of an older version of Theon: a cocky remark, a sly grin, a comment on the sorts of bastards who fucked their own brothers. Instead, he sees that Theon is comparing Robb’s indiscretion of loving his kin to loving a monster. Perhaps they aren’t so different after all, having both been given back lives they thought taken from them.

“It’s okay, Theon,” Robb repeats once more, firmly, no hesitation. “What is done is done –“

“What is dead may never die.” Theon whispers. Robb claps him on the shoulder and stands.

“What is dead may never die.” He repeats, and Theon’s heart aches at the reminder that no matter what, Robb respects him enough to honor the Iron Born tradition. “You and I have been given a second chance at redemption, Theon. Please, don’t waste it.”

“I won’t,” Theon says quietly. Robb nods and departs to find Jon.

∞

 _Bran watches as his father, in shock and covered in the blood of his sister, walks numbly down the steps of the tower. He cradles in his arms the small form of…it_ must _be Jon._

_Howland Reed has managed to prop himself up against a tree. His hand clutches tightly to the wound at his side, and his eyes flicker dazedly before they focus in on Bran’s father._

_“Ned?” Howland asks. His father blinks up at him and then looks back down at the fidgeting babe in his arms._

_“Ned, whose baby is that?” Howland demands. His voice cracks slightly and he clears his throat, craning his neck to get a better look. When his father still doesn’t answer, he says, “Ned, where is Lyanna? Was she there?”_

_“She was,” Ned says softly, still staring at the child._

_“Ned,” Howland groans as he pushes himself back to his feet and he walks clumsily to stand beside him. “Whose child is this?”_

_“Lyanna’s son,” Ned says in disbelief._

_“Lyanna’s…oh, gods,” Howland’s face turns to an expression of horror at the realization. Bran knows that Robert Baratheon had barely even spoken to Lyanna before she was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen, and he had certainly never laid with her. It left only one feasible alternative to who the babe’s father could be._

_“We have to protect him.” Ned says urgently, finally seeming to find some sense. “You know what Robert will do if he finds out.”_

_“He’s Lyanna’s blood, Ned.” Howland says quietly. “Robert won’t harm her own blood –“_

_“He will if he knows her child is a Targaryen!”_

_“Ned, how do you plan to explain how you suddenly acquired a child –“ Ned frowns and looks back down at the small child._

_“I’ll tell them he’s mine.”_

_“Ned –“_

_“He has Stark blood, Howland.” Ned cuts him off. “He is a_ Stark _, regardless of his father’s name. And I promised Lyanna I would protect him.” He sighs heavily. “So I will say he is mine – he will be hidden in plain sight.”_

_Ned looks back at Howland seriously._

_“Howland, I need your word. You cannot speak of this to anyone. From this day, he is_ my _son. We found Lyanna, and she was dead already. We will bury her before Robert even makes it back to the North for a burial at the crypt.”_

 _“Are you sure about this? This is a secret you must take to the grave, Ned. You cannot tell another soul, either. Not Robert, not your wife, not_ anyone _.”_

_“I know,” Ned nods and stares gravely at his friend. “But I promised her, and if it’s the last thing I do, I will keep that promise.”_

“Bran.”

Bran’s eyes flicker back to his room at Castle Black. Meera is standing above him with her hair braided back, her eyes soft and happy looking. He knows that she is excited to finally be getting back home.

“The men are all set to leave. We just need to get you situated.”

“Who will I be riding with?” Bran asks as he works to help Meera move him from the bed into a makeshift chair.

“Me, of course,” Meera rolls her eyes at him. “I have to keep a proper eye on you.”

“Of course,” Bran laughs with her, but he can’t help the feeling of dread that settles in his stomach. To go back to Winterfell is to tell the secret his father died protecting. And he _has_ to tell Jon because Jon is his brother – no matter who his parents truly were, Jon would always be his brother. And Jon deserved the truth after so long of wondering.

As Meera moves him down a hallway and towards Castle Black’s courtyards, Bran thinks about how Meera’s father was the only other soul alive to know about Jon. From all the stories Bran has heard over the years, Howland Reed was one of the truest friends Ned ever had, a brave and noble man matched only by Eddard Stark himself. They were both willing to sacrifice themselves to do the right thing – whether it be protecting a child or protecting a kingdom.

If it weren’t for Bran, Howland likely would have kept the secret to his own grave.

Castle Black’s courtyard is packed with the remaining men of the Night’s Watch, all packed and prepared to leave the Wall for the last time. A handful will stay back, but not to fight – only to send the ravens when the dead finally come over the Wall. The men remaining are older, long-since having come to terms with the idea that they would die by their posts.

Three men help hoist Bran onto the horse behind Meera and he finds himself holding on tightly to her waist. Meera turns her head and smiles before looking back ahead.

By the time the doors of Castle Black have closed behind them, Bran is already dreaming.

_“He touched you.”_

_“No, I don’t know, he was close, but I don’t think–“_

_“He touched you.”_

_The mark on Bran’s wrist brightens and suddenly Bran is seeing the icy eyes of the same man coming to the Wall and placing his hand to its icy exterior. The entire Wall shakes and suddenly it shatters like a mirror, falling and falling and falling until it is nothing but rubble beneath the boots and hooves of the dead._

∞

Jon is pacing in their bedchambers when Robb arrives late in the evening. After many hours debating with the different houses about how best to make a move on Pyke, they had all retired more frustrated than before. With winter arriving at Winterfell, the likelihood of travel was becoming a vague dream rather than a real possibility.

Jon has removed his shirt and is striding around in just his breeches and heavy boots. Ghost is stretched out on the hearth, watching steadily as his master moves. Robb toes out of his own boots and begins loosening the strings at his collar. Jon looks over at him tiredly.

“How did things go with Theon?”

“Sansa was right; he’s changed a lot.”

“He’s bringing the Iron Fleet to Winterfell?”

“It sounds like it, yes.” Robb nods and undoes the last knot in his shirt, letting it fall open. He comes to stand at the edge of the fur by the fireplace, his hands on his hips thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what to do, Robb.” Jon says tiredly, finally stopping in his pacing. Robb nods knowingly. “We have no way of getting to Pyke, and even if we did, it’s probably already too late. Euron Greyjoy has already had enough time to do whatever it is he likes.”

“If he had hurt Sansa or Brienne, chances are we’d know about it.” Robb tells him. “The Iron Born aren’t known for their subtlety.”

“True,” Jon nods slightly, still seeming distracted. Robb moves forward and pulls Jon forward with hands at his waist. Jon sighs and their eyes meet.

“For now, we have to trust that the Old Gods are keeping watch.”

“You believe that?” Jon asks, resting his forehead against his brother’s.

“I have to,” Robb shrugs. “They’re the only reason I’m here – I have to believe they want us to succeed.”

“I love you.” Jon whispers, leaning back to look at him. Robb smiles softly.

“And I love you.” Jon sighs into the kiss that Robb presses to his lips. The dark haired boy seems to melt into his brother’s embrace, seeking what comfort he can there. Robb pulls him tighter against him, and Jon’s fingers clutch at his red hair.

After a moment of languid kissing, Robb grazes his teeth over Jon’s lower lip, causing the other man to shiver deeply. Robb grins wolfishly and starts moving backwards towards the bed. When his knees hit the edge, he sits and allows Jon to straddle him there, held up higher to clutch at Robb’s jaw as they continue to claim one another’s mouths.

“Jon,” Robb breathes, his hands dragging up and down his brother’s bare back. Jon hums in acknowledgment, lost in the feel of Robb’s mouth on his. Robb leans back slightly and brushes at Jon’s unruly hair – much longer now than it was when Robb first returned. “Gods, but you are gorgeous.”

“Stop,” Jon rolls his eyes, his cheeks tinting pink. Robb just smiles and grabs at Jon’s thighs, shifting him so that Jon is lying on his back with his knees bracketing Robb, his thighs gripped tightly by Robb as his mouth moves from Jon’s mouth down his neck and chest. Jon groans at the sensations and then Robb’s fingers are tugging at his breeches and pulling them down around his thighs. Jon quickly kicks off his boots so that Robb can pull his pants off the rest of the way, Jon falls back into the soft furs on the bed and allows himself this moment of pleasure with the love of his life – for who knows how many chances they have left?

The first brush of Robb’s lips at Jon’s leaking cock is a welcome reprieve from the sexual tension that had been building since they had left for Widow’s Watch the fortnight before. Having been in the presence of other men for so long, their interactions had been forcibly shaken into that of two brothers and friends, not that of familiar lovers. Here, in their own chambers in their own house, it was bliss to be reunited once more.

Robb sucks at Jon’s cock with his eyes locked on Jon’s face, his head thrown back and lips parted in pleasure. Having been so close to Robb for so long and being unable to touch, Jon finds he won’t last long now that he has him where he wants him.

“R-Robb,” he stutters out, cut off by a moan as Robb licks at the underside of his cock. “Robb, I’m going to –“

“Not yet,” Robb murmurs, pulling off with a satisfied _pop_ and grinning, moving from above Jon to collect some oil by the bedside. Jon eagerly pulls his legs farther apart and adjusts his hips, giving Robb easy access.

“Please,” Jon breathes, and Robb oils up a finger and slides it in at the same time his other hands claws at Jon’s chest, leaving dark red marks along his breast and abdomen. Jon’s back arches and Robb adds a second finger, stretching him carefully.

“Robb, come on,” Jon begs, finally losing some of his usual stoicism. Robb frowns at him.

“You’re sure? I usually –“

“Please,” Jon shakes his head at him, curls flying across the fur beautifully. “I just want to feel you. _Please_.”

And who is Robb to deny his king a request like that?

When Robb slides hesitantly into Jon’s heat, they both exhale sharply, both in tension and relief. Robb is careful not to enter too fast, well-aware that Jon hasn’t had the amount of preparation Robb is usually diligent about giving.

Jon’s legs wrap tightly around Robb’s waist and he holds tight, keeping Robb trapped in the only place he wants to be. He leans forward and claims Jon’s mouth eagerly, allowing himself a gentle roll of his hips to make sure he’s fully settled. Jon finally nudges his heels into Robb’s back and then he’s pounding into him, aiming for that spot that will have Jon seeing stars.

As expected, neither lasts very long, and by the time both have reached their climaxes, Jon is blissed out and exhausted. He allows Robb to wipe at the mess between their stomachs and his legs with a soiled shirt and then he’s being tugged into Robb’s warm arms.

“We’ll figure it out,” Robb promises, sounding like he himself is already drifting. “And Sansa is fierce – I think she can handle anything Euron Greyjoy throws at her.”

Jon nods sleepily and feels Robb kiss his temple before they both fall into a heavy sleep.

 

_He is standing in a giant Sept that he’s never seen before. The seats surrounding the center circle are filled with people buzzing with anxious anticipation. Jon himself is wearing simple yellow rags, similar to six other older men sitting in chairs around him. Standing at the edge of the circle is a man about Jon’s own age, his hair cut short and his clothes dirty rags. The mark of the Seven is etched sharply into his forehead and is bleeding down his face. He seems to be in shock, not even bothering to wipe the blood away from his eyes._

_Jon turns when he hears a woman’s voice speaking to him._

_“You mutilated him,” she says in horror. She’s wearing an elegant blue dress and shawl, her hair falling in gentle brown waves down her back. On her head rests a golden crown that matches the one Jon had seen Robert Baratheon wearing. This must be Margaery Tyrell. “You gave me your word.”_

_“And I have kept my word,” Jon says, his voice rasping out from his older body. “Once the Queen Mother’s trial is concluded, Brother Loras is free to leave.”_

_Loras Tyrell, Jon places the name with the man whose forehead is bleeding steadily._

_“And where_ is _the Queen Mother?” Margaery demands. An older boy wearing black robes and chains, a mark of the Seven also etched into his forehead, steps forward._

_“Her litter never left the Red Keep.” Jon looks at him and then turns to smile wryly at Margaery._

_“It appears the Queen Mother does not wish to attend her own trial.” To the boy he says, “Go to the Red Keep and show her the way.” The boy nods and turns to leave. Jon offers Margaery another condescending smile before turning his back to her once more._

_Between one blink and the next, Jon is suddenly seeing through the eyes of the boy he had just sent to fetch Cersei from the Red Keep. Jon marches outside with two other boys in similar dress in time to see a young boy, about seven years of age, running down the steps. He stops briefly and looks back up at Jon before continuing to run. Jon knows instantly that he is being asked to follow._

_“Get the others,” Jon commands the other boys with him before he makes his way down the steps after the boy. He follows him into a dark tunnel. The boy has procured a torch and he takes off running, glancing back a few times to be sure Jon is following. He is._

_The boy takes many different turns, winding his way through the dark tunnels until Jon has to crawl through a small space that he barely fits through. He comes upon a small area that breaks off in four separate directions. He stops when he sees the torch lying on the ground, abandoned. He picks it up and looks around the dark space._

_“The longer you wait, the worse it’ll be for you.” He warns the little boy. He turns to his right where he sees a small glimpse of light and is suddenly struck in the thigh by the boy’s dagger. The pain that rips through him is excruciating, causing him to fall to the ground. The boy comes to kneel behind him and he gasps out,_

_“What are you doing?” The boy doesn’t reply, just stands and runs off once more. Jon squeezes his eyes shut in pain and when he opens them again, he’s back in the Sept._

_It is eerie, how quiet the entire room is while people wait for Cersei Lannister to arrive. Jon tries to maintain his confident façade, but it appears Margaery Tyrell’s brain is spinning. He hears her heels click across the marble floor as she approaches him swiftly._

_“There’s something wrong,” she says softly to him, trying to remain calm but Jon can see she looks honestly frightened._

_“You have nothing to fear, Your Grace,” Jon assures her. “The trial will begin shortly.”_

_“Cersei is not here.” Margaery reminds him. “Tommen is not here. Why do you_ think _they aren’t here?” She demands._

_“If the accused is not here, she will be tried regardless.” Jon replies sternly. “We cannot escape the justice of the gods.” He moves past her to walk away and she finally appears to lose her patience._

_“Forget about the bloody gods and listen to what I’m telling you!” A gasp goes out amongst the crowd as Margaery steps forward to speak to him through clenched teeth. “Cersei_ understands _the consequences of her absence and she is absent anyway! Which means she does not intend to suffer those consequences. The trial can wait; we all need to leave.”_

_Jon looks at her a moment and then scoffs, shaking his head at her as if she were a dramatic child. As Jon turns, he suddenly finds himself back in the tunnel looking back at the small lights down at the end to his right. His leg is bleeding and he feels rather numb suddenly, knowing he is losing too much blood already. He begins crawling towards the light. As he scrambles and gets closer, he can suddenly sees what the light is coming from._

_Amongst a few broken barrels full of a green liquid, three candles are slowly dying as they inch closer to the ground. Jon stops crawling and squints at it in confusion before looking around him. The small candle light offers him enough visibility to see that he is_ surrounded _by barrels with what appears to be the same type of liquid. Jon, having listened to Samwell enough times at the Wall, knows exactly what the green liquid is._

_Apparently, so does the boy Jon is inside of, for he starts moving once again, much faster this time. He knows he needs to get to it before the flames touch that liquid. He closes his eyes to stave off the pain radiating from shifting his leg and when he opens it, Margaery is panicking._

_“We all need to leave. Now!” She says, and the crowd begins murmuring as people try to figure out what is happening. Jon watches her rush over to her brother and makes him look at her. She whispers something to him and then guides him over towards the exits. Two boys wearing dark robes and their chains block her way, and she starts shouting for them to get out of her way. Jon turns to look back at the crowd that is slowly getting out of control and then he’s once more back in the tunnel._

_He struggles to drag himself towards the candles and is shaking and sweating so bad that he can’t even muster enough air in his lungs to blow out the flames. That’s when the last piece of candle wax melts and ignites. The last thing he sees is green –_

_And in the Sept, people are trying to get out, but all the exits have been blocked. Slowly, Jon feels himself starting to panic along with everyone else. Perhaps Margaery was right, maybe something truly was wrong._

_He makes his way towards her and she turns to stare at him. Her eyes scream of betrayal, her brother bleeding and pale beside her. Suddenly, a series of loud bangs echo from below the Sept and suddenly the floor explodes –_

Jon blinks awake and sees Ghost raise his head to meet his eyes. Jon sighs internally, knowing that peaceful sleep was far too much to ask for.

∞

Alone in the forests just outside Maidenpool, Gendry camps for the night. His small fire has long-since died out and he’s nearly asleep when his half-open eyes spot a figure moving in the shadows. Startled, Gendry sits up fast and squints into the darkness, wary of anyone or anything that could be coming in the night.

He reaches slowly for the sword he had forged before leaving from King’s Landing and grips it firmly as the figure draws closer. As it nears, Gendry realizes that it is in fact a person, and that this person is hobbling rather poorly for someone so far out in the woods at night.

“Hello?” Gendry calls to the figure, who stops suddenly, their face hidden behind a dark cloak. After a moment of staring at one another, the figure hobbles closer and shrugs his hood aside. Standing in the dim moonlight is a man of about fifty, with blond hair steadily whitening and tanned skin. He seems lost and hesitant to speak.

“Can I help you?” Gendry asks warily.

“Dragonstone,” the man mutters, his voice low and raspy. “I need to get to Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone?” Gendry frowns. “That’s about a fortnight East of here.”

“East?” The man seems startled by this information. “No, it should be North of here.”

“North?” Gendry repeats with a laugh. “You try going North and it’ll be the exact opposite of the place you’re trying to go. Trust me, you want to head that a’way.” Gendry throws his thumb eastward and the older man frowns at his hand in concentration.

“I’ve been…away from Westeros for a long time. But cities do not just _move_.”

“No, they don’t, but I promise you, Dragonstone is that way.”

The ensuing silence is so uncomfortable that Gendry almost wants to stab _himself_ with his sword. Finally, the man sits down and stares at him.

“Can you take me there?”

“To Dragonstone?” Gendry asks in surprise. “No, see, _I’m_ heading North. I’m not going anywhere near Dragonstone.”

“Please, I don’t know my way around.”

“Why do you need to get to Dragonstone so badly? And where did you come from?”

“I’m from a great house, but it is far from Dragonstone and I seem to be lost.”

“I can’t help you.”

He expects the man to argue, to beg some more, but instead the man glares at him and shoves himself up from the ground.

“I’ll find it myself.” He mutters before hobbling away once more.

For some reason, Gendry finds it hard to sleep after the encounter.

∞

Petyr steps into the godswood and is startled to find a woman seated at the base of the tree, her dark head bowed solemnly, though it does not appear that she is praying.

“Hello?” Petyr asks and the woman looks up, her face a beautiful array of sharp angles and knowing eyes. She clears her throat and stands, her dark gown falling in layers around her body. She bows to him.

“Hello,”

“I’m sorry for intruding on your prayers.” Petyr tells her.

“Don’t be,” the woman shakes her head. “I do not keep the Old Gods. I simply needed a quiet place to pray to my own god.”

“Praying to your god in the sacred place of another.” Petyr smiles wryly. “Sounds like a plan for disaster.”

“Only if you believe in such myths as the Old Gods,” the woman shakes her head and shares his smile. “And I find it hard to believe in myths.”

“As do many people these days,” Petyr agrees, stepping towards the woman. “But why do it so late in the night?”

“Why are _you_ here if not also to pray?”

“Like you, I was only searching for another quiet place.”

“I see,”

“My apologies, but I believe we have not met. Are you with one of the houses gathered to help Winterfell?”

“I fear I am not, Lord Baelish.”

Petyr stops and watches her carefully. It is so rare that he finds himself behind in this game of political power – very seldom does a person know his name but he not know theirs.

“You know who I am, yet I do not have the same luxury.”

“I am the Lady Melisandre.” The name rings vague bells in Petyr’s mind, but he finds that he cannot think where he has heard it before.

“Well, Lady Melisandre, if you are not part of a vassal house, what brings you to Winterfell?”

“I came for Jon Snow.”

“Of course you did,” Petyr nods, almost condescendingly. Melisandre only smiles.

“He needs my help, but he does not know how to ask for it.”

“And what help could you offer to the resident King in the North?”

“I know why the Night King wants him,” Melisandre says cryptically. Intrigued, Petyr comes closer, finding something enticing about the woman before him.

“How is it you know what these White Walkers want?”

“We have our prophecies, Lord Baelish, and so do the people beyond the Wall. Many of us do not know that – but they do, and Jon Snow is very dangerous to them.”

“How so?”

“The White Walkers have lived for centuries in silence beyond the Wall, but it is prophesied that only death by ice and fire can rid them from this world. And Jon Snow fits that description more than any other ever has.”

“Ice and fire,” Petyr muses. “And how is it that Jon Snow matches this prophesy?”

“Only time shall reveal all, Lord Baelish.” She promises. “But Jon Snow is destined to defeat them, and the Night King will stop at nothing until Jon Snow is no longer a threat. But with me by Jon’s side, I can make sure he succeeds and that Westeros is given to him.”

“You believe you can do all of that?” Petyr asks.

“I do not believe it, Lord Baelish.” Melisandre smiles and walks closer to him, leaning until her lips are just at his ears. “I _know_ it.”

 


	12. Familiar Faces

 

His boots crunch loudly through the snow, echoing in the silence surrounding the great woods. He comes to a stop before entering the clearing of the weirwood tree, hesitant to enter sacred ground. The wind rustles what few leaves cling to the trees, a symphony of crunching pieces.

He feels like he’s dreaming – he can’t recall leaving the castle, nor making the trek this far out into the woods. How is it he’s wandered so far? How long has he been here?

The breeze picks up and the smell of sea salt fills his senses, a familiar scent that instantly flickers within him a light of remembrance. His mother. Theon turns and catches the tail of a white dress escaping deeper into the woods and he follows, trudging urgently through the expanse of snow.

“Mother,” he calls, his voice sounding far away and raspy from disuse. He tries to catch up but each time he expects to take a turn and see the figure, he only catches a glimpse before she is disappearing once more. He picks up his pace, moving swiftly through the trees as another breeze picks up – carrying the scent of fire this time.

“Theon,”

The voice does not belong to his mother, and he comes to a stop suddenly at the sound of his name. He turns and faces a woman wearing a thin, long, white gown. It blows in the wind, the edges of the sheer material flapping eagerly. Her skin is milky white and her hair the color of honey. Despite the lateness of the hour, she seems to shine. The dress has no sleeves and she doesn’t appear to wear any shoes, but nevertheless she seems unperturbed by the cold. Just looking at her makes Theon shiver involuntarily.

“Who are you?” Theon asks, squinting at the bright figure. The woman smiles, reaches out a hand towards him, and beckons him forward.

“Please, come,”

He goes. The first touch of skin is startling – she feels like frozen stone, smooth as marble, a sheet of ice. Her grip is tight but her palms soft to the touch. A sense of calm washes over him and he feels he can breathe for the first time in a very long time.

She leads him even further into the dark forest, but her light illuminates the way. As they go, Theon tries to take more notice of their surroundings.

That’s when he sees it.

Along the ground they travel, the woman is following the pattern of something like a trail. It measures maybe three grown men across and is gods only knew how long.

“We have been waiting for you for a long time, Theon Greyjoy.”

“W-what do you mean?” Theon swallows harshly and the woman tosses another easy smile over her shoulder.

“You needed to be ready – you needed to become the man you were meant to be before we could trust you with such matters.”

“I don’t understand.” Theon tells her earnestly. He _wants_ to understand – trust him with what? What is he ready for?

“The Young Wolf and the Prince Who Was Promised work diligently – but they cannot do it alone. That is why your life, our fledgling kraken, was always meant to intertwine with the Starks.” She finally stops as the long trail they had been following tapers off into a wide sphere, twice the width of the rest of it. “It was not by chance you were chosen to be housed at Winterfell.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Oh, no, young kraken, it was known.” She smiles at him and then releases his hand, pointing at the end of the gigantic trail. “I cannot stay any longer – the time has come for me to move on. But someone must stay. Someone must care for them.”

“Care for…what?” Theon frowns and suddenly a low rumble sounds from just beyond the end of the large imprint, at the edge of the tree line. There, between two old needle trees, stares two ice blue eyes in the dark, each eye roughly the size of Theon’s head. Whatever the creature is, it is completely enshrouded by the darkness of the forest. But it must be gigantic in size – it did, after all, leave the trail the woman had made him follow.

“You must protect them, for they will be needed in the wars to come.”

“What…are they?” Theon asks, mouth open in both amazement and horror as the eyes blink at him.

“Time will make all things known, young kraken.” She shifts closer to him and then brushes her icy lips against his in a gentle caress of a kiss. “Watch over them – see that no harm comes to them before their time. Do this, for the gods rely on _you_.”

Between one blink and the next, the woman has vanished and Theon is left with only the large blue eyes. After a moment, the large creature moves, its body shaking the ground, and it retreats further away.

Dazed and partially frozen, Theon makes his way back to Winterfell.

∞

_He’s seated at a high table, eating a piece of meat pie, and feeling very relaxed for his old age. Jon’s fork chimes as it hits the plate, bringing that final piece of pie to his mouth and savoring the flavor._

_A serving girl comes towards him and up the steps, carrying the rest of the meat pie in her hands. He takes a drink of wine as she approaches and sets the plate on the table beside him gently. Without being told, she begins cutting into the pie and Jon’s eyes caress the roundness of her breasts, the curve of her waist, and the sway of her hips and arse._

_“You’re not one of mine, are you?” He rasps._

_“No, my lord,” the girl replies simply, putting the newly cut piece of pie onto his plate._

_“I didn’t think so,” Jon says smugly. “Too pretty.” His old, withered hand smacks at the girl’s arse and she grunts but makes no other sound in reply. The body smiles, satisfied, while Jon internally cringes. The girl stands back and waits for further instruction as Jon looks around._

_“Where are my damned moron sons?” He demands angrily. “Black Walder and Lothar promised to be here by midday.”_

_“They’re here, my lord.” The girl tells him innocently. Jon squints over at her._

_“Well what are they doing? Trimming their cunt hairs? Tell them to come here. Now.”_

_The girl hesitates and then says, “But they’re already here, my lord.” When Jon squints more and tries to see with old eyes past the first row of tables in the feasting hall, the girl leans forward and tugs the large tray of meat pie closer to Jon._

_“Here,” she stresses, “my lord.”_

_With confusion and slow-processing, Jon slowly sets down his wine and, with a shaking hand, peels the crust off the top of the pie to reveal the blue-colored thumb of his son. As he tries to process what he is looking at, the girl continues._

_“They weren’t easy to carve. Especially Black Walder,” Jon is disgusted, gagging on the pie as he stares over at her in horror. As he watches, the pretty face is peeled away to reveal none other than his little sister – still so small but looking as fierce as ever._

_“My name is Arya Stark.” She tells him as the old body starts heaving breathlessly. “I want you to know that the last thing you’re ever going to see is a Stark smiling down at you as you die.”_

_The words register after a moment and he tries to escape, but he’s no match for this determined girl who grips him by the neck and tugs him backwards, meeting his throat with a blade of her own. He twitches violently in her arms, but despite her small stature, Arya holds him to her chest and feels each vicious shake. Finally, once the blood loss has reached a critical point of no return, Arya steps back and their eyes meet – his shining with desperation and hers looking satisfied and dangerous._

Jon’s hair is standing on end when his eyes flutter open. A shift to his left shows that Ghost is staring at him seriously, his red eyes unblinking. Once the direwolf senses that Jon is giving him his full attention, Ghost turns and walks over to the window, whining as he hops onto his hind legs to stare outside.

Jon frowns heavily and moves from the bed, not feeling the chill of the room for the heat his own body has continued to give off. Slowly, he walks to the window and Ghost goes back down on all four to let him look outside. Jon squints at the brightness of the white snow before his eyes fall on two figures entering the gates of Winterfell. One is a larger man, and the other looks to be a slender female carrying a child –

“Sam!” Jon breathes, a slow smile creeping over his face. His voice rouses Robb from his slumber, causing the red head to grumble and roll to face his brother. He notices Jon’s smile and the way he’s quickly dressing and sits up.

“What is it?”

“Come on,” Jon says cheerfully – much happier than he’s seemed in a long while. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

Jon tugs on his boots while Robb sleepily gets out of bed. He starts putting on random articles of clothing, startled by Jon’s rapid change in attitude. After a moment of reorienting himself, he follows after his brother.

Robb steps into the courtyard in time to see Jon rush forward and hug a larger boy – for he certainly has the cheeks of a boy – tightly. They’re laughing, Jon’s laugh echoing across the wintery morning. Beside the boy he’s hugging stands a girl of a similar age, carrying a tightly-wrapped babe in her arms. Jon turns from the boy and greets the girl before running a hand playfully through the little boy’s hair. He then turns and beckons Robb forward.

“This ‘im?” The other boy asks as Robb approaches.

“Yeah,” Jon nods, turning a bright smile on his brother. Robb is caught off guard by the earnest joy on his brother’s face – had he ever seen his brother this happy? “Robb, this is Samwell Tarly of the Night’s Watch. Sam, this is my brother, Robb.”

“Back from the dead, I hear.” Sam says, sticking a hand out to shake. Robb takes his hesitantly, smiling sort of awkwardly. Sam shoots a sharp look at Jon. “I’m still cross, you know, that you waited so long to tell me. Seven _Hells_ , Jon, you _died_.”

“Robb, this is Gilly and her son, Sam.” Jon deflects.

“Sam,” Robb smiles slightly at the little boy before frowning back at Jon and Sam. “I thought men of the Night’s Watch –“

“He isn’t mine!” Samwell says quickly, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

“Sam’s been like a father to Little Sam, but no, he isn’t the father.” Gilly replies meekly. Her crooked smile fits her nicely – she seems awkward in the same way Samwell is, but it suits her.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Gilly. What house are you from?”

There’s a beat of silence before Jon huffs out a quiet laugh.

“She’s – she _was_ a Wildling, Robb.”

Robb’s eyes widen a bit, taking in the slight girl before him, before he remembers that the Wildlings are truly no different from them. If Jon had beaten anything into him, it was that idea.

“You really are a shite king, you know?” Samwell tells Jon. “You haven’t even offered us a drink.”

“Sam, since when have you ever been able to hold a drink?”

“ _I_ am a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch who has been travelling the past fortnight to get to Winterfell after _you_ sent me to the Citadel to find out some answers – which _I did_!”

“You…you found something?” Jon’s eyes, if possible, brighten even more at the prospect. “Then, by all means, please come inside.”

∞

“Why can you not go to Jon Snow directly?”

“The King in the North banished me for…mistakes I made that caused irrevocable things to come to pass.”

“He banished you, and yet you stayed?”

“I received a raven not too long ago, asking for my advice. It seemed to me at the time that he was finally coming to realize that he _does_ need my help.”

Petyr watches the woman pace before the hearth, her long gown trailing behind her and swaying with each step. He finds himself captivated by every movement – she seems somewhat vulnerable yet at the same time impenetrable. He reminds him so much of young Cat, or even Sansa only a few years before. Before they’d declared themselves ‘Northern women’ and turned from the characteristics that had made them who they truly were.

“What sort of advice was Jon Snow searching for?”

“Something that needn’t be discussed at the present time.” Melisandre waves him off. She comes to stand just before the fires of Petyr’s chambers and her gaze flicks animatedly over the flames. “The prophesies, as of yet, remain so changeable. It is sometimes hard to keep track of the shifting picture.” She turns to look at Petyr. “But the final result is always the same.”

“Jon Snow, seated on the Iron Throne?”

“Jon Snow, seated on the Iron Throne.” Melisandre says firmly, so fierce in her beliefs. Petyr wishes he could believe so strongly in hearsay and fire prophesies. But for him, seeing had always been believing, and a burning log would always just be a burning log.

“I understand you struggle to believe me.” Melisandre says. She moves towards him and offers her hand. “I know you have so many doubts, but the flames truly do show the way. If you allow yourself, for only a single moment, to believe in them.”

She guides him up from his seat and towards the fire. Inwardly Petyr sighs. He looks down into the burning wood and stares for a second before glancing back at the woman. She smiles fondly, if not condescendingly.

“You have to _try_ , Lord Baelish. You cannot expect the Lord of Light to meet you the whole way.”

So Petyr, against his better judgement, looks deeper into the fire and lets himself consider the possibilities.

He stands for what feels like hours as suddenly bits and pieces of it come together for him. The Red Woman was right, the picture continued to shift before his eyes, but if he looked hard enough, he could almost see the Iron Throne and –

He finally stumbles away from the fire and looks at Melisandre in shock. She nods to him in satisfaction.

“You see, we all have our parts to play, Lord Baelish.”

∞

“Dragonstone?”

“Has a mountain of dragon’s glass, just like Stannis said.” Sam nods enthusiastically.

“Isn’t that where we suspect Daenerys Targaryen will be heading?” Robb asks.

“According to Theon.” Jon nods, looking at the hastily-scribbled notes Sam had pulled out to show them.

“Do you have any men to spare? To send out there to start mining before Daenerys lands?”

“Even if I did, they’d never make it before her fleet.”

“But we don’t have the men. Not for a distance like that as this storm starts worsening.” Robb says tiredly.

“Honestly, when you said you’d taken back Winterfell from the Boltons, I thought you were joking.” Sam admits. Jon smiles weakly at that and continues looking over the diagrams. Sam adds, “Then I remembered: you aren’t funny.”

Robb barks out a laugh in response and Jon looks over at Sam with a playful scowl on his face.

“Sam,” Jon finally says, serious now. “What did it cost you to leave the Citadel so soon?”

Sam sighs. “I won’t say I can’t _ever_ go back. But they don’t look too kindly on a man who shows up out of the blue with a letter from someone they didn’t know was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch saying I was supposed to replace someone they didn’t know was dead, only for me to turn around a few months later and decide to leave – only not back to Castle Black, but to Winterfell.”

“I imagine that means becoming a Maester is off the table, then?” Jon asks, receiving a shrug in response. Robb can see the answer bothers his brother. “I’m really sorry, Sam.”

“Don’t be. I found information that could help, which is why I went in the first place.”

“But you always wanted to be –“

“Before I realized that I could do a lot more good closer to home.”

“Sam,” Jon frowns. “Your home isn’t _in_ the North.”

“It is.” Sam argues with a huff of laughter. “It’s where the only family I have left is.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you, Sam.” Robb says earnestly and Sam offers him a small smile.

“Besides,” Sam continues, “I have to stand beside the two of you if we’re to get any work done. I mean, Jon’s face alone caused enough problems, but now that _you’re_ here…” Sam waves a hand at Robb and Jon scoffs.

“What do you mean?” Robb asks, honestly confused. “Jon’s face?"

“Sam,” Jon shakes his head at him. When Robb glances at his brother, he’s surprised to see that Jon looks… _embarrassed?_ Sam bursts into laughter, causing Robb to frown over at him. Sam sputters, looking between the two of them in complete joy.

“Are you bloody _joking_?” Sam demands through gasping laughter. “Craster, a creepy, old Wildling man was willing to _kill_ him because he was prettier than half his daughters! He wasn’t allowed to sleep inside because his daughters kept staring at him!” Sam laughs at Jon’s reddening face. “Girls have been _throwing_ themselves at you. Get the bloody fuck over yourself.”

Jon scowls at the larger boy, but this only serves to make Sam laugh harder. Robb’s frown has turned to amusement as he watches the two. They are most certainly complete opposites, but Robb can see why they must be friends. Sam has all the joy of a six-year-old while Jon has always been the most frustratingly morose man Robb has ever met.

“Please tell me more, Sam.” Robb grins, leaning closer to the boy. “Tell me all about how Jon’s _face_ has caused trouble up at the Wall.”

“I’m leaving,” Jon rolls his eyes, shoving away from the table.

“Well, you see, this one time –“

Jon ignores whatever story Sam begins telling and makes his way out to the training yards where several young Wildling boys are sparring with the younger sons of different lords and ladies. Despite the grievances the adults seem to have with each other, the children have all taken quite nicely to each other, no matter the social class or background.

Jon comes to the edge of the training yard to find Lyanna Mormont with a bow in her hand, aimed at a target about twenty-odd yards in front of her. Beside her stands Davos, watching her intently. A memory of standing in the courtyard, helping coach Bran with his own bow, comes to mind.

 _Relax your bow arm_ , Jon thinks, watching as the small girl lets loose the arrow and it hits too far to the left of the target.

“Don’t worry,” Davos tells her patiently. “You just need to relax that bow arm. It’ll come with practice. Go on, try it again.”

Jon smiles to himself. Things had been so simple then, before King Robert had ever come to Winterfell, before anyone had left home or gone to war. Before he’d finally had to face the reality that Robb wasn’t going to end things – so it was up to him to save them both.

“Your Grace,”

Jon startles out of his musings to find Lord Baelish standing close to him, looking – of all things – _nervous_.

“Lord Baelish,” Jon greets him with a curt nod of his head.

“I…I have something I must discuss with you.”

“All right?” Jon frowns at him but follows when Littlefinger quickly walks back towards his own chambers inside Winterfell. He stops short at the sight before him.

Sitting at a small table before the mantle place is none other than the Red Priestess. Jon feels a surge of rage fizzle through him at the memory of being in Shireen Baratheon’s place on that fucking funeral pyre.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jon demands angrily, glaring first at Melisandre and then over at Petyr. Lord Baelish has the decency to look chastised.

“Please, Your Grace, I beg of you to listen before making any hasty decisions.” Melisandre implores. “And do not blame Lord Baelish for my being here.”

“I told you never to come back here.” Jon says darkly. Melisandre nods in understanding and rises from her seat.

“My king, please, I come only to ease your mind from the letter you sent me some moons ago.”

“I shall make my exit,” Lord Baelish mutters guiltily, crossing the room and leaving just as quickly as he had led Jon there.

“You must tell me everything about these dreams, Jon Snow.” Melisandre tells him. “When they began, who exactly you’ve seen, and all the details you can remember.”

Jon finds himself crumbling beneath the weight of her surety. He knows that he has a duty to bring her to justice. Shireen Baratheon deserves it, and Davos will murder her _and_ Jon if he finds out Jon has let her stay. But Melisandre is here, the only woman who might possibly know what is happening to him, and despite everything, Jon cannot deny that he needs her help in this.

So, he takes a deep breath, sits down at the table, and begins telling her about Viserys Targaryen.

∞

Jon is nowhere to be found when Robb is ushered into the main courtyard late that night. Unsure what to expect, Robb’s gut clenches horribly at the thought that some new terror has befallen Winterfell.

The doors to the courtyard are thrown open and Robb is six feet past the door when he realizes that he’s looking at his sister.

“Sansa!” Robb cries, marching forward and hugging her tightly. Sansa returns the embrace, tucking her face into his neck and breathing heavily, trying not to cry. “Gods, we were worried.”

“I’m okay,” Sansa promises shakily. “We rode as fast as we could to get back here. Euron Greyjoy –“

“Has taken Pyke,” Robb nods. “Yeah, we know, it’s why we were so worried. We don’t have enough men to go in this weather to Pyke to get you. Jon and I were scared for you.” Robb pauses and looks at Brienne. “Of course, I know you would never let anything happen to her.”

“I would protect her to the death.” Brienne promises him with a firm nod. Robb smiles thankfully at her and finally releases Sansa.

“Robb,” Sansa says, a smile growing on her face. She motions to a third figure, a smaller girl who appears to have arrived on horse with Sansa and Brienne. She wears a red cloak over a dark dress and heavy skirts, her hair falls in heavy black waves, and her face is the type of plain that is easily forgotten. Robb is sure he has never seen her before.

“Arya, it’s okay,” Sansa says happily. “You’re home now.”

“Arya?” Robb breathes, frowning at his sister and then at the stranger. Sansa nods eagerly and reaches for the smaller girl who quickly steps away, her eyes shining with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Sansa’s happiness turns to confusion and Brienne’s hand automatically goes to her sword. “The girl. She came into the kitchen and gave me her cloak. She told me that you would think I was her…that I was to pretend to be Arya. She said to make sure you believed me until we got to Winterfell. Paid me fifty dragons.”

“Arya…” Sansa shakes her head and claps a hand over her mouth in shock. Brienne’s eyes widen and she steps towards the girl who cowers at the woman’s approach.

“Why did she tell you to do this?”

“She said it was the only way to get you both out of there safely without anyone trying to stop you.” The girl’s voice wobbles with her tears. “It was the deal she made with King Euron.”

“What deal?” Robb demands.

“You and your lady knight could leave Pyke, so long as your sister stayed behind to become Euron’s queen.”


	13. Force of Nature

 

The feasting hall is in chaos around Robb as people discuss what the implications of Arya marrying Euron could mean. Robb himself struggles to reconcile the little girl he remembers with the woman who has somehow saved Sansa and Brienne by making a sacrifice so outside her own character. Or, at least, the character Robb thought he remembered.

Arya was, after all, apparently an assassin of a sort.

Jon remains gone from the commotion and this worries Robb some. He hadn’t mentioned any councils or pressing concerns. In fact, he’d been in relatively good spirits when he’d left Robb and Samwell to their storytelling.

Both Sam and Jon had been upset over the uselessness of the dragonglass, seeing as there would be no way to get it from Dragonstone if Daenerys was bringing her armies there. And Robb would rather lock Jon in their chambers than allow him to go to Dragonstone. After all, the Starks had a history of ill fates the farther south they went.

“Where is Jon?” Sansa demands from the high table – only loud enough for Robb and Davos to hear. As if on cue, the doors at the back of the hall open and Jon strides in, wearing no furs and no cloak, only a white long sleeve tunic and leather trousers, his heavy boots offering the only real protection from the cold. Robb frowns at the way Jon seems so jumpy, so rundown. He hadn’t looked like that when the day began.

“What’s going on?” Jon asks as soon as he’s within range of Robb.

“Sansa and Brienne returned,”

“I can see that.” Jon frowns at him. “What else?”

“They found Arya.”

“Arya?” Jon appears startled and he glances around the hall. “Where is she?”

“At Pyke,” Robb explains. “She took Sansa’s place – she’s going to marry Euron Greyjoy.”

“She _what_?” Jon demands, his eyes flashing dangerously. Robb sighs and rubs tiredly at his face.

“You heard correctly.”

“How did this happen?” Jon snaps, this time the question directed at Brienne of Tarth. It’s Sansa who answers him.

“Arya…she can…it’s her face. Well, actually, not _her_ face, exactly –“

“Lady Arya has had training in a certain… _skillset_ not found in common Westerosi society, I’m afraid.” Brienne interjects. “She’s learned how to change her appearance. We returned with a serving girl of House Greyjoy, believing her to be Lady Arya in disguise. She led us to believe this at Arya’s behest.”

“So we’ve been worrying about the wrong sister the whole time.” Jon clarifies and Sansa nods.

“Your Grace!” The shout comes after the doors burst open once more and Davos strides in angrily. Jon turns to look at him and sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair in agitation. Robb frowns at the obvious signs of something weighing on his brother.

“Yes, Ser Davos?” Jon asks as the Onion Knight approaches. Davos has a strange look in his eyes and he doesn’t hesitate in grabbing Jon’s arm harshly and hissing something into Jon’s ear. Robb watches curiously as Jon sighs once more and nods, leaning back to look the knight in the eyes.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry…you _know_?” Davos stares incredulously at Jon before releasing his arm and taking a step backwards. “You _know_?”

“I know.” Jon repeats with another nod. “I’ve spent the last few hours speaking with her.”

“You…Apologies, Your Grace, but the last time she was here –“

“I know, Ser Davos. But since then, things have changed.” Jon tells the older man.

“She burned a little girl alive!” Davos explodes and that quiets the entire hall, everyone stopping to look over at the king and Ser Davos.

“I understand that, Ser Davos.” Jon leans closer to the man and says sharply, “I know probably more than _anyone_. I _lived_ it, in that dream.”

“Yet she’s alive.”

“She’s alive.” Jon nods firmly. “She’s alive because I _need_ her.”

Robb finally steps forward and asks, “What is going on?”

Davos stares at Jon incredulously, betrayal written into the lines of his face. Jon watches the Onion Knight for some time before Davos turns to Robb and curtly says, “Ask the king,” before he turns on his heel and marches out the way he’d come. Jon looks at Robb and then hurries after Ser Davos.

Robb follows.

“Davos!” Jon shouts at the retreating man’s back angrily. Robb hastens his step to keep up and rounds a corner in time to see Davos spin around to face Jon, chest heaving.

“You’ve allowed a traitor into Winterfell, and you’ve allowed her to worm her way back into your good graces. You sentenced her to death if she ever stepped foot in the north again, and I plan to see that that sentence is fulfilled.”

“I’ve overturned my sentence.” Jon says firmly. The knight steps closer to him, dangerously close. Robb unconsciously puts a hand to his sword.

“She seduced you, too, it would appear.”

“You forget yourself, Ser Davos.” Robb snaps, stepping up to his brother’s side. Ser Davos’ eyes flick to him and then he takes a step away.

“She is here, and for the time being, she is staying.” Jon tells the knight. “That’s my decision.”

Davos shakes his head mournfully and looks between them before saying quietly, “Then we are doomed to the same fate as Stannis Baratheon.” He bows his head with a mumbled “Your Grace”, and then he leaves. Jon’s shoulders slump and Robb puts his hand there to steady him.

“The Red Priestess is here?”

“She’s here.” Jon confirms, looking Robb in the eye tiredly. “Let’s go back. I need to know everything.”

∞

Daenerys is finally falling asleep when a loud pounding rouses her. She sits up drowsily and pushes herself out of bed with some effort. She sways a bit as she gathers her footing on the ship before she walks towards the door just as it another pounding.

“What?” She asks before seeing who is there. Unsurprisingly, it’s Tyrion Lannister with a grim look on his face. What _is_ surprising is that he also looks to have been awoken from sleep.

“You need to come quickly.” Tyrion urges her quickly. Dany understands that she shouldn’t question him on this just yet, so she grabs for a white robe and drapes it around her small frame and laces up her boots before following her Hand out to the deck of the ship.

Ellaria Sand is there, along with her three daughters, and they look as put together and regal as always. Apparently, they had not been rudely awoken at such an ungodly hour.

“What is it?” Dany asks immediately. Ellaria Sand steps forward.

“The Greyjoy fleet,” she says hurriedly. “They’re gone.”

“Gone.” Dany echoes. “What do you mean, they’re gone?”

“I saw some of the men loading supplies at our last stop and I spoke with Asha Greyjoy. It took some…persuasion for her to tell me what was going on.”

“And what _was_ going on?” Dany demands.

“Her brother Theon sailed for Winterfell when he found out Robb Stark was alive.” Ellaria explains as quickly as possible. It has become well-known that Daenerys has a very small tolerance for longwinded explanations. “A raven came while we were docked that the King in the North had accepted their offer of fighting men and Asha took her men there.”

“The King in the North?” Dany asks slowly, trying to piece it together in her head.

“What they called Robb Stark when he went to war with my nephew.” Tyrion explains.

“So now that this…Robb Stark is at Winterfell, he’s now back as their king?”

“I assume so, yes.” Ellaria nods.

“Why would she offer her ships to the North after I had made her a promise of returning Pyke to her family?” Daenerys demands, turning her sharp eyes on Tyrion. The dwarf shifts uncomfortably.

“Perhaps…Theon Greyjoy had grown up with Robb Stark. He was very much like a brother, I suspect, until he returned home after Robb went to war. He betrayed the Starks. If they’ve forgiven him, or pardoned him – whichever – then it might be seen as a stronger or more _familial_ alliance than that made with you.”

“It’s treason against the rightful Queen of Westeros.” Daenerys snaps.

“As I told her,” Ellaria quickly adds. “I don’t believe the Starks would trust the Greyjoys after everything. I warned her that it could be a trap – that Robb Stark was using Theon to lure them into the North to kill them.”

“Either way, it appears our first objective may have changed.” Dany looks back at Tyrion. “We shall land at Dragonstone, yes. But then we march north.” She pauses and then her eyes brighten slightly. “I want you to send a raven to this King in the North; tell him that the _rightful_ ruler of the Seven Kingdoms is coming for him – and he can either bend the knee and swear fealty, or he can perish.”

Tyrion frowns intensely at her.

“My Queen, ostracizing one-seventh of the Seven Kingdoms is not exactly a plan for conquering.”

“I cannot rule Westeros without the support of the Northmen.” Dany agrees. “And when Aegon Targaryen rode to the north on his dragon, Torrhen Stark bent the knee to save his people. If this new ‘king’ has any sense, he will do the same.”

Dany doesn’t wait for any further arguments, simply turns and goes back down to her room below deck. They would be arriving at Dragonstone within the next few days – and then she would ride north and seize the first of seven kingdoms.

∞

Gendry frowns at the trees north of the Twins, the leaves having all turned red and orange and yellow. King’s Landing had still been mainly green and filled with sunshine, but the further north he travelled, the darker and colder it became. Winter truly had come.

The horse he rides is one he’d stolen from outside a brothel the night before. It looked similar to the one he had been riding, and he hopes that the horse will have enough time to rest before the owner leaves the brothel and takes him wherever. He also hopes that they won’t notice that it _isn’t_ his/her horse.

As his horse follows the path parallel to the King’s Road through the woods, Gendry slowly becomes aware of the sound of running footsteps from behind him, crunching at the leaves scattered across the forest floor. Gendry turns and gapes as someone speeds towards him wearing a dark cloak. Gendry’s heels knock fiercely at the horse’s sides, but all it does is frighten the horse, who rises up on two feet causing Gendry to roll backwards off the saddle.

He lands with an _umpf_ and gasps as all the air leaves his lungs. His ribcage aches with the impact and his ears ring loudly. He can barely make out the upside-down image of the figure running towards him and not stopping until they had leaped atop him and wrapped gloved-fingers around his throat.

“Argh!” Gendry groans, trying to find the strength to shove the person off of him. In the ensuing struggle, the hood of the cloak falls back and the face of the wandering man in the woods comes into view. The face causes Gendry to slacken his hold on the man’s arms in confusion. This, in turn, seems to confuse the hell out of the man on top of him, whose own grip slips for a brief moment.

That moment is all Gendry needs.

He flips them, rolling to gain the upper hand while pulling a blade from his belt. With his left forearm, he pins the man to the ground across the throat and holds the blade up towards him. Rather than give up, the man swings his head forward to knock into Gendry, who Gendry falls back in pain. The man climbs back into his former position to try and strangle Gendry again, but Gendry has just enough time to swing his leg over the man and kick him to the side.

Gendry slips on leaves as he tries to get his feet beneath him. He reaches for the sword on his belt and finds that it’s no longer there. A quick glance around shows it a few yards away, having fallen when the horse bucked him off. Gendry makes for it but is blindsided by the other man who has launched himself onto Gendry’s back.

They tumble to the ground in a heap and suddenly Gendry realizes the man has a sword of his own. He jumps back to his feet just as the man swings wildly from the ground – the sword barely misses Gendry’s stomach.

Gendry runs for his own sword and gets it in his hand before the man is upon him, swinging madly. Gendry ducks and weaves where he can, strikes when he can’t avoid it, and manages a couple of good hits. But where Gendry has learned how to read fighting men, this man is different – he isn’t showing much skill, just a manic need to kill Gendry for no apparent reason.

It doesn’t take long for Gendry to slip up and fall to his knees, the leaves crunching madly below him, and the man is just about to swing his sword that final time when Gendry becomes aware of galloping hooves and suddenly, the man is being impaled by an arrow through the heart.

“The Dragon Queen,” the man mumbles raspily, clutching futilely at the arrow in his chest. “I needed to find the Dragon Queen.”

He falls to the side in front of Gendry, his cloak falling away and the patch of grey scale on his chest becomes visible next to a medallion on a chain around his neck, the sigil of a bear forged onto it.

Gendry stares at the man who had tried to kill him before looking up to find himself staring at the men who had sold him to the Red Priestess all those years ago.

“ _You_.” Gendry spits, hastily climbing to his feet.

“Us.” Thoros says, smiling serenely down at him from his horse. Gendry’s glare only gets harder.

“Here I thought this lunatic would be the worst part of my journey.”

“I’d like to think we’re the _best_ part of your journey.” Thoros comments idly.

“It’s Gendry, right?” Beric asks, quirking his eyebrow curiously. Gendry just stares at him angrily for a moment without answering. Beric sighs and then slides off his horse. “I believe we’ve many things to talk about – and I think you should hear us out. We did, after all, just save your life.”

“I’m lucky I _have_ my life.” Gendry snaps, stepping away from the one-eyed man. “That woman you sold me to wanted to sacrifice me to the same crazy god you lot worship.”

“Another cynic,” Thoros quips. “Do we really need another? Clegane is enough, I reckon.”

“Fuck off.” Sandor Clegane muttered, drawing Gendry’s shocked attention.

“I thought you _hated_ them!”

“I did.” Clegane shrugs. “Still do, most days.” Gendry thought he might add more, but the Hound doesn’t expound and Gendry turns his attention back to Beric.

“I don’t think we have anything to discuss.” Gendry tells him honestly.

“Where are you headed?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because these days, it’s better to band together than wander alone.” Beric tells him sincerely. Gendry frowns at him.

“I’d take my chances out here on my own rather than trust you with my life.”

“I just _saved_ your life.” Thoros points out, shaking his bow at Gendry and nodding to the arrow sticking out of the dead man’s chest.

“After you already sold me to be a human sacrifice!”

“That’s Jorah Mormont.” The Hound suddenly says, scowling down at the dead man. This catches Thoros’ attention, who leaps off his horse to take a closer look. Gendry takes a wary step backwards.

“The fucker,” Thoros mutters.

“Are you certain?” Beric asks.

“It’s him, all right.” Thoros nods. “I’d remember that bloody face anywhere. He followed behind me at the Battle of Pyke. Got himself a knighthood while I got left in the dust.”

“And then he got banished from the Seven Kingdoms.” The Hound comments dully. Thoros frowns and looks over at Clegane.

“Why?”

“Sold some men into slavery. Got himself exiled.”

“Then what is Ser Jorah Mormont doing back in Westeros?” Beric questions aloud, though he doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular.

“This might have something to do with it.” Thoros motions to the bit of grey scale peeking out from his shirt collar.

“Greyscale,” Beric comments idly with a shake of his head. “A horrible way to go.”

“Well, it didn’t kill him.” Thoros replies jovially. “ _I_ did.”

“Right,” Gendry says finally. “I’m off.”

“You didn’t tell us where you were going.”

“I don’t _intend_ to tell you where I’m going.”

“Gendry.” Beric Dondarrion steps forwards, his tone soft but his good eye overwhelmingly serious. “The wars to come…they won’t be easy. We can’t be fighting amongst ourselves.”

“I don’t want to fight you.” Gendry tells the man. “But I also have no desire to travel anywhere with you.”

“We’re going to the Wall.” Thoros tells him brightly.

“You’re…why in the seven hells would you do that?”

“Someone’s got to,” Beric says. Gendry looks him over and sees that they’re all dead serious, even Sandor fucking Clegane.

“I’m going to Winterfell.” Gendry finally tells them.

“Why?” The Hound asks. “You got an invitation with the Boltons?”

“The Boltons?” Gendry frowns, realizing they don’t know. “No, the Starks have Winterfell. Jon Snow is King in the North, now.”

“That little girl, the Stark girl you were travelling with. You’re going to find her, aren’t you?” Thoros asks with a wide smirk on his face. Gendry scowls.

“Well,” Beric cuts in. “We’ll ride together to Winterfell, then.”

Gendry sighs, knowing he really doesn’t have much choice.

∞

_“Stand down,” Rhaegar says softly to the knights behind him. One of his lieutenants looks unsure, but slowly lowers his sword. The rest follow suit. Robert Baratheon watches impassively as Rhaegar steps forward, making no move towards the sword at his hip. Robert’s fingers grip the hilt of his Warhammer tightly._

_“Robert,” Rhaegar greets quietly. Bran watches him closely, staring at the man he now knows to be Jon’s true father. He is not at all as Bran would have imagined him. The stories Bran had always heard depicted Rhaegar Targaryen as a ruthless warrior of brute strength with a narcissistic personality, but this man appeared rather…meek in comparison to Robert Baratheon. His white hair was pulled back from his face messily, his violet eyes sorrowful. He appears neither fierce nor scared – only resigned to whatever the gods have planned._

_“Rhaegar,” Robert growls lowly. Robert Baratheon, too, is so strikingly different from the fat king who Bran met at Winterfell. Where the king had been a fumbling drunk, this man was tall and fit, skilled at battle, and confident. It showed in every part of him._

_“I wish it had not come to this.” Rhaegar says. His voice is like a song, floating in the air around them. Bran can see how people would be drawn to him, and why they are drawn to Daenerys now – both hold a lilting, melodic voice and a strong exterior with an underlying softness. It could make you forget that they have dragons’ blood._

_“You have no one to blame but yourself.” Robert says angrily. “Your death will be on_ you _.”_

_“My death,” Rhaegar sighs, finally sliding his sword from its shaft. He runs a pale finger down the blade thoughtfully. “Have you already decided the outcome of this duel before it has begun?”_

_“Where is she?” Robert demands. “Where is Lyanna?”_

_“She is safe.” Rhaegar tells him. “She is protected by my most trusted men, and no harm shall come to her.”_

_“She is not_ yours _to protect! She was not yours to take. You have a wife, Rhaegar. Lyanna belonged to_ me _.”_

_“Oh Robert,” Rhaegar sighs again, looking so young. “You claim you love her, but you do not know her.”_

_“And you think you do?” Robert demands. “You think kidnapping her means you_ love _her? She was_ mine, _damn you!”_

_“Lyanna only ever belonged to herself, Robert.” Rhaegar says gently. “And that is why I loved her. Not because I had a claim, but because she shines with independence. Her beauty is in the way she is controlled only by herself. You have no claim to her, Robert, and neither do I. She is not an object – she is a woman of her own making.”_

_“Tell me where she is.” Robert snaps, getting angrier with each passing moment._

_“She is safe, and that is all you need to worry about.”_

_“She isn’t safe until she’s back where she belongs!” Robert explodes, his face red with fury. “With her family. With_ me _.”_

 _“You still do not understand.” Rhaegar shakes his head. “Lyanna was always free to go, Robert. She_ chose _to stay.”_

 _“You expect me to believe the word of a Targaryen? Do you_ know _what your father has done?”_

_“My father was a terrible king. His word meant nothing, but mine does. Lyanna chose to stay with me.”_

_“You stole her despite having your own family, Rhaegar.” Robert roars. “Was your wife not good enough for you? Elia Martell, the Beauty of Dorne? You decided to make an innocent girl your pet whore?”_

_“I chose to make Lyanna Stark my_ wife _, Robert.” The sentence visibly startles Robert._

_“What –“_

_“We were married in secret before sharing a bed. Lyanna is my wife.” Rhaegar hesitates. “She is pregnant with my child.”_

_“Lies!” Robert shouts and then he swings his hammer. Rhaegar barely has time to lift his shield to protect himself. One of the guards moves forward to help but is stopped by another – Rhaegar had told them to stand down._

_“I’m not lying,” Rhaegar says as Robert swings again. “She is carrying my child inside of her.”_

_“You bastard,” Robert swings and swings again. “You took her, you raped her, and you_ ruined _her.” The next swing catches Rhaegar’s sword and it’s suddenly a back-and-forth duel between the men._

 _“I_ love _her, Robert.” Rhaegar shifts his sword and holds Robert’s hammer down into the dirt below them, bringing their faces close together. Where Robert flares with indignant fury, Rhaegar is earnest. “For all the reasons you never could.”_

_Robert’s other hand comes and punches Rhaegar in the jaw, loosening the hold his sword had on Robert’s hammer. Rhaegar stumbles back, a hand holding his jaw, and then Robert hits him with an uppercut below the chin. That’s when the Targaryen men finally leap into action, meeting Robert’s men with force of their own. But Robert and Rhaegar see only each other. Bran watches as Robert hits him over and over before Rhaegar is bloody and broken on the ground. For now, the battle is for these two men alone._

_Coughing on his own blood, Rhaegar chokes as Robert leans down very close to his face._

_“Robert,” Rhaegar rasps. “Please, whatever may happen, she must be protected.”_

_“She should have been protected from_ you _!” And Robert gives a final blow to Rhaegar’s face before dropping his Warhammer to the ground. He is dripping in sweat and blood – both his and Rhaegar’s. He takes a moment to realize that Rhaegar Targaryen is truly dead before he roars once more in grief, attacking the closest knight._

Bran’s eyelashes flutter and then his eyes return to themselves. He is slumped against Meera’s back atop the horse. His fingers have gone numb from the cold, and he’s glad he can no longer feel his legs, for he’s sure they’d be unbearably painful.

“We should be arriving in the next couple of days.” Meera tells him. Bran nods against her back and shifts so he’s sitting straighter.

“Good.”

∞

As is often the case on the Iron Islands, the sky is grey and overcast, the sun casting only a shadow of light onto the waters below. The sea surrounding them is whitecapped and the waves slosh against the beach.

Arya is led down the winding steps to the edge of the sea where the ceremony is to be held. She wears a silver gown that dips down her chest and stops just above her navel. The back is done up with a hundred buttons, all small kraken sigils, and the silver glints dimly through the small amount of sunlight. The women leading her down to the beach are all older, hair pale or completely white, all with faces wrinkled from years of harsh living on the islands.

There is a crowd of people at the edge of the sea already, and Arya can see Euron Greyjoy standing with the tips of his boots in the water next to the priest of the Drowned God. As she descends the cliffside, the long train of her gown catches on some rocks and one of the older women scurries to untangle it, drawing the eyes of the crowd.

Arya lifts her chin imperceptibly as Euron’s eyes rake over her body, paying close attention to the way the neckline of the dress exposes her small breasts, the way her thin waist is hugged tightly, and the way her hair, much longer than it had ever been before now, falls in waves down her back.

Around her neck sits a large chain with the Greyjoy sigil engraved for all to see. In only a short amount of time, Arya will be Queen of the Iron Islands, and therefore must show pride for her new home in every detail of her appearance.

Her feet hit the sand, and she feels its small grains sliding through her sandals. A brisk wind picks up and Arya suppresses a shiver – she must show no weakness.

The crowd has fallen silent as she approaches. Euron’s back straightens as he smiles smugly at his bride. The priest, likewise, looks her over and nods approvingly. It is for every woman of the Iron Islands to look both fierce, but also for its queen to appear beautiful.

The women leave Arya at the edge of the water next to Euron. The priest clears his throat, and all of the witnesses gather closer to get a better look at the ceremony.

“Kneel,” the priest says. Arya and Euron both fall to their knees in the cool seawater, Euron taking hold of her hands and clutching them tightly in his. He winks at her as the water soaks through her gown and sends goosebumps up her spine and over her arms.

The night before, she had been subjected to the rituals inherent in the Drowned God’s religion. She had been brought to the edge of the sea the night before, into a small cave, and stripped of all clothing and ornaments. Her clothing was burned in a simple ritual and she was then led by the older women into the water where they began washing her with the salt water, ‘purifying’ her and releasing her of her ‘maidenhood’ before she was wed to Euron.

Arya herself couldn’t help wondering about Theon’s mother – how she must have gone through something similar when she married Balon. Or, even, if things had come to pass as many had suspected and Sansa had wed Theon, if this is how it would have happened (She cannot imagine Sansa allowing anyone to see her undressed and bathing in the sea, but she also could not see Theon willingly following the pompous processions of the Seven).

While they washed Arya, they had explained that at the same time, Euron was going through the groom’s rituals, involving retrieving a sword from a lost ancestor which he would give to Arya at the wedding ceremony – a gift, they told her, that she would pass on to their son when he came of age. Likewise, Arya was expected to give a familial sword to her new husband as a symbol of faith that the protection she once received from her father she will now find in her husband.

“It is small,” one woman had said, lifting Needle from where it rested along the beach. It was the only thing they had not burned with her clothing. “But it will do.”

Now, kneeling in the sea, Euron offers her his sword with a sly grin.

“In trust for her future sons, the bride now accepts this sword.” The Drowned Man says, watching closely as Arya takes the sword from Euron. One of the women steps forward with Needle and Arya takes it, holding it up for Euron to see. Laughter bubbles up from the crowd at the sight of such a small sword.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but it may not be much. My own father’s sword was taken when he was slain – I pray to the Drowned God it is enough for now.” Arya says, words she had practiced over and over again at the older women’s behest.

“Will you accept this sword?” The Drowned Man asks.

“I will,” Euron says, taking hold of the small sword and passing it quickly to one of the knights behind him. Arya does the same with Euron’s sword and rejoins their hands as the Drowned Man speaks again.

“Euron of House Greyjoy, with the Drowned God Himself as your witness, do you take this woman?”

“I swear by the Drowned God.” Euron answers clearly and confidently.

“Arya of House Stark, with the Drowned God Himself as your witness, do you receive this man as your husband and king?”

“I swear by the Drowned God.” Arya replies. The priest nods and then is handed a stone pitcher by someone. He puts it into the sea to fill it and then lifts it above their heads.

“Let this man and woman be drowned in the sea as You were,” he says, “Let them rise from the sea as one, as You were.” He turns the pitcher so the water pours down onto Euron’s head. “Bless them with salt,” he turns and does the same to Arya, “Bless them with stone, bless them with steel.” When the water runs out, Arya and Euron look at one another.

“What is dead may never die,” they say in unison.

“What is dead may never die,” comes the reply from the priest and all of the witnesses.

“But rises again, harder and stronger.” The Drowned Man finishes. “Stand.”

Euron easily lifts himself and pulls Arya up with him, her dress soaked and heavy. The priest turns them to look at the crowd.

“By the power of the Drowned God, this man and woman are wed.”

A loud cheer goes up and Euron receives several claps on the back while women come to offer congratulations to their new queen.

The feast that follows is filled with an abundance of food and even more drink, and Euron becomes more and more drunk the longer the night goes on. Arya herself limits the amount of drink she partakes, managing to cover up her lack of enthusiasm for the ale with excited talk and the way her hand lays rest atop her new husband’s thigh for the night.

Finally, as the party begins to finally wind down not long before sunrise, Euron stands. Arya follows and finds herself suddenly swung into her husband’s arms and being carried towards the doors.

A cheer erupts as men start whistling and women snigger at the obvious intentions Euron has for his new bride. When the hall doors close, Arya finds herself enclosed in silence, broken only by Euron’s heavy breathing as he stumbles his way towards his – _their_ – bed chambers.

Once inside, he deposits Arya on the bed and stumbles towards the wash basin, splashing his face and kicking off his boots. Arya pulls herself up and leans against the pillows, attempting to look seductive as Euron begins unlacing his vest.

He prowls towards her, as if some feral animal searching out its prey, and he comes to the end of the bed. He leans down and crawls towards her, coming to rest above her small frame against the pillows.

“And now you are mine,” he murmurs, his pupils wide and breath stinking of ale. Arya grins up at him.

“Yes, and you are mine.” She replies. Euron falls upon her hungrily, kissing and licking at her mouth before moving to her throat and collar. His hands seek out the end of her dress and cold fingers travel swiftly up her thighs and to her arse, pulling her forward and spreading her legs until he can rest between them.

“Now you shall see why it is the Seven Kingdoms speak so highly of Iron Born cock.”

∞

Robb lies awake for a long time before he can no longer stand it. Jon lies next to him, completely bare of the furs. Robb touches his arm and finds he’s still burning, but it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit.

He pushes himself up from the bed and pulls his breeches on, hoping that going for a walk will allow him to clear his head long enough to get a few hours of sleep. His mind jumps from one thought to the next: How will they get Arya away from Euron? Is it already too late? What if we can’t get enough men to fight the Night King? Why is the Red Priestess here? Why is Jon _allowing_ the Red Priestess to be here?

As if called by his thoughts, Robb spots the woman in red standing out in the courtyard, her face tilted up to the sky as the snow falls, her eyes closed to the coldness around her. They open when Robb’s boots crunch on the snow as he approaches her cautiously, taking in the way her pale skin seems to glow in the darkness, how the red dress looks so much like blood against the white snow.

“Robb Stark,” the woman says simply as he comes nearer. She smiles at him.

“Lady Melisandre,” Robb greets her – after all, he had grown up with politeness and diplomacy instilled in his bones and soul.

“I wondered when I would meet the Young Wolf.” The name sends a shiver down Robb’s spine. She turns to fully look at him. Robb feels self-conscious as her eyes assess him. “The man the king holds in such high regard – the wolf that came back from the dead.”

“I am not the first wolf to rise from the dead.” Robb reminds her.

“No,” her lips thin as her eyes twinkle in the dark. “The Lord of Light brought you both back.”

“The Lord of Light had nothing to do with my resurrection.” Robb tells her firmly. Her smile turns somewhat condescending.

“Oh, Young Wolf. You have so much to learn.”

“I do not, in fact.” Robb steps closer to her. “You see, I know for a fact it was the Old Gods who brought me back for my brother’s sake. The same gods who told me that you were a blackness on the souls of everyone who follows the ways of the Old Gods.”

“Your brother,” Melisandre repeats, shaking her head. “Your gods do not exist, Young Wolf.”

Robb narrows his eyes in a challenge. “I know I have you to thank for my own death.”

“I…I was wrong.” The woman sighs meekly. “I was blinded to the truth – I believed Stannis was the Lord’s chosen, but he was not.” She steps even closer to Robb. “Jon Snow _is_ , though.”

“Jon _Stark_.” Robb corrects her. “Jon is no longer a bastard, and therefore has no use for a bastard’s name.”

“A name changes nothing, Young Wolf.” She murmurs softly. “Jon Snow will be who he was always meant to be, whether he is legitimized or not. In his soul, he is Jon Snow, the bastard son of Eddard Stark. Regardless of any other truth, that is who he _is_ – who he has been from birth. You think a new name changes that?”

Robb hesitates, knowing that there is truth. Despite having the Stark name, Robb knows it made Jon uncomfortable to use it – that his brother still saw himself as a man of no name and no titles. “You are right, he doesn’t need the Stark name to know who he is. But he also does not need _you_.”

“I disagree, Young Wolf. For why else did he turn to me in his time of need? Why not find another priestess to answer his questions? Because despite everything, he knows that his future relies on prophesy, and he _is_ the Prince Who Was Promised.”

“The Old Gods agree,” Robb nods surely. “But they disagree with you being here to guide him.”

“Then why have I not been struck down, Young Wolf?” She tilts her head curiously. “Why bring you back rather than send me away? For what purpose?”

“Jon needs me.”

“As he needs me.” Something catches her gaze and she suddenly steps back from him. Their eyes meet again. “All will be revealed soon, Young Wolf.”

“Yes,” Robb nods, watching her carefully. “They will.”

She leaves and Robb finds himself feeling off kilter from the encounter. The way she spoke made it seem as if she knew so much more. But the Old Gods had brought Robb back, and he was determined to trust their judgement: The Red Woman was not to be trusted. Not at Winterfell, and not with Jon.

∞

Theon blows into his hands as he treks through the dark forest to find the beasts he’d seen only a few days earlier. This time, there is no glowing woman or sense of trust – he just feels miserable and bloody frozen.

The moon casts just enough light for him to once more follow the serpent-like trail to the spot where he had stood with the woman. In the dull moonlight, Theon can see the body of… _something_ shift and suddenly two giant blue eyes are staring at him.

An involuntary shiver runs through Theon and he takes a step backwards in fear. He waits a moment, but the creature does not move any closer, just continues to stare unnervingly.

Slowly, Theon turns and pulls the heavy body of a slain elk and drags it towards the beast, leaving a trail of dark blood in his wake. He hefts the body into the snow and then hurriedly walks back to the makeshift sled he’d made with some old planks of wood to carry the elk. The beast slowly rises, its eyes suddenly looking down from the tops of the trees and it steps forward, shaking the ground below.

At the same time, heavy gusts of wind start billowing through the trees and it feels like daggers on Theon’s face. He turns, pulling up the furs to shield himself as he dashes back towards Winterfell, abandoning the sled and running as fast as his battered legs will take him.

∞

A knock at the chamber door awakens Jon. He doesn’t remember actually falling asleep, and the way his muscles ache as he sits up suggests he must have been sleeping very deeply and hadn’t moved since drifting off.

Jon turns to nudge Robb and is startled to find his brother is no longer there. A frown crosses Jon’s face as he slides out of bed to the sound of more knocking at the door. Jon scrubs tiredly at his face, still confused about Robb’s absence, and makes it to the door.

He opens it to find the Red Woman standing there, looking poised and ready for something. Jon blinks at her and then his frown deepens.

“My Lady,” he mumbles roughly.

“My King, I wondered if I might have a word.”

Jon hesitates and then steps aside to allow her to move in. He closes the door and watches as the woman moves to stand at the center of the room, Ghost’s eyes following her closely.

“What is it?” Jon asks tiredly. The woman looks at the embers of the fire for a moment before she turns to face him, a look of strife on her face.

“I am deeply concerned for you, My King.” She admits. “Not just for the troubling dreams, but also for the trouble my presence is causing amongst your advisors.”

“My advisors,” Jon sighs. “Davos is _understandably_ upset.” He reminds her.

“Your brother is also quite angry with my being here.”

“Robb?” Jon blinks in surprise at the mention. “You’ve met Robb?”

“I encountered him, yes.” She nods. “And I believe my being here is doing more harm than good. I want only to serve you, Jon Snow, but I do not wish to cause anymore hardships for the North.”

She steps closer, looking mournful, and her hand lifts and rests against his cheek. Before, her hand might have felt like a branding iron – she always gave off so much heat – but now, it’s almost like having a cool stone laid on his face instead.

“My King,” she says solemnly. “There are so many decisions to make now. And there is so much pain I can see inside of you.”

Jon stares at her, her eyes wide and earnest as she comes ever closer to him. It takes Jon’s breath away, how similar this is to how she had been at Castle Black.

“I only want to help.”

Jon jerks away before anything further can happen. Melisandre lets him go, not making any move to follow, but she looks so disappointed – as if Jon had been so close yet still does not understand. Jon shakes his head at her, feeling like his skin is on fire.

“Right now I just need to sleep.” Jon tells her. She waits a moment but eventually bows her head and exits as quickly as she had come.

Jon feels like he’s choking, the ache in his bones growing each moment. His body feels like it’s burning from the inside and he whimpers, falling against his chamber door in agony before shakily opening the door up and desperately seeking the outdoors where the winds have picked up and the snow is falling heavily.

He stumbles his way out into the courtyard and is sure if anyone was around, he’d look mad drunk, but as it is, he feels like his skin should be melting off. Each step is torture, and not even the raging winds and snow outside seem to help cool him off. He closes his eyes as a wave of searing pain shoots through him and he’s bombarded with images of the worst things.

_“The Lannisters send their regards,” Lord Bolton says as he shoves his blade into Robb’s heart._

_“Now watch her become a woman,” Ramsay says to Theon, turning to stare at his new bride on the bed._

_Daenerys Targaryen pushing a pillow over a Dothraki’s face as tears stain her pale cheeks._

_Theon staring up at the burned corpses of two farm boys and finding nothing but hatred for himself._

_Joffrey laughing from his throne, saying, “If we want Robb Stark to hear us, we’re going to have to scream louder!” as a knight abuses Sansa._

_Jaime Lannister crying as he tells Brienne, “’Burn them all’, he said. ‘Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds’.”_

_The sound Catelyn Stark made when her eldest son dropped to the ground._

_Sansa, begging Theon to help her, “He already hurts me every night.”_

_The look on Tommen Baratheon’s face as he watches the Sept burn._

_Stannis Baratheon’s face when he realized he was going to lose._

_Bran and Rickon staring back at Winterfell as it burns._

_Theon sitting in a dirty hallway saying, “My real father lost his head in King’s Landing. I made a choice…and I chose wrong.”_

_Arya looking up at the crows as their father’s head falls to the floor._

_An exotic-looking woman screaming in horror as another man’s skull is cracked open._

_Rickon, racing as fast as he can to get to his brother, but dying before he could._

_Robb, heartbroken, angrily whipping his sword against a tree over and over again._

So many brief images that Jon feels dizzy with it until his eyes flutter open and he realizes he’s down in the crypt, staring up at the stone face of Lyanna Stark. The candle in her palm is lit, its tiny flame dancing with each harsh breath Jon exhales.

Without thinking about what he’s doing, Jon lifts his hand and puts it over the flame, watching as the red licks across his palms and over his fingers, but does not burn. Jon moves his fingers slowly, watching intently as the flame caresses his skin.

“Jon?”

Jon turns, not taking his hand away from the flame, to look at Robb. Robb looks worriedly at Jon and then rushes forward when he sees the state Jon is in.

“What are you doing!” He grabs Jon’s wrist and draws his hand closer to look – and finds unmarked skin over a trembling hand. Blue eyes seek Jon’s, so many questions there that Jon cannot begin to answer.

“How…” Robb trails off, his hand rubbing over Jon’s in search of any evidence of damage.

“I don’t know.” Jon whispers, his voice hoarse and finding he’s never been more terrified in his life. “Robb, I don’t know.”

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Robb says quickly, gripping his brother to his chest in a crushing hug as Jon curls in on himself, gasping in panicked breaths.

“What’s happening to me?” Jon whimpers into the furs at his brother’s collar.

“I don’t know.” Robb answers honestly. His lips brush his brother’s feverish temple. “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out, okay?” He grips Jon’s face and pulls him up so they’re staring at one another. “I promise you, Jon. We’re going to figure this out.”

Robb remembers the last time he’d seen Jon crying – fifteen, all long limbs and curly hair, _so angry_ – but this is nothing like that. This is Jon in such a lonely place of confusion that looking at him breaks Robb’s heart.

“I promise.” Robb says again, hugging Jon tightly and silently vowing to never let him go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the wedding ceremony was based partially on tradition Viking weddings because GRRM has said that the Vikings are who he based the Iron Born on.


	14. Widow's Vein

Euron Greyjoy makes his way down to the beach where men are already packing supplies for their journey. He’d given instructions that they would leave for his queen’s northern home within a fortnight of the wedding. They’d been preparing for war since then, all of the weapons rounded up and distributed amongst the men and women, the wood and steel of the ships reworked and finished for the journey, new masts sewn, and the anticipation sang through the crowd as their king made his way down to them.

“Gentlemen!” Euron crows, his eager, half-manic grin solidly in place. “Tonight, we set sail!”

The crowd cheers, the men clapping one another on the backs in celebration. Euron raises his hand to quiet them.

“We are going to go to my queen’s land and help her bastard brother slay these ice monsters he claims to have seen.” Euron laughs at the idea, as do the rest of the men. “We’ll take care of them, and then we begin our journey to take the Iron Throne!”

More cheers follow this proclamation. Euron turns and leaves them to finish their preparations and makes his way back inside the castle. He winks at a few of the prettier maidens he passes, slaps hands with a few lads, and finally comes to the door of his bedchambers. He pushes inside and quickly locks the door behind him before he turns and makes his way over to the balcony. As he steps out onto the ledge, a few rain drops hit his face. In one swift movement, he lifts his hand and grips the edge of his neck and pulls off the face.

Arya sighs, shaking her hair out and smiling down at the face in her hands. Euron Greyjoy made a decent and useful addition to her collection of faces, and she was glad to be rid of the man himself.

Before he’d managed to get his cock near her on their wedding night, she’d slit his throat and heaved him off of her to fall onto the floor. He’d gaped up at her like a fish, causing her to laugh in amusement – the kraken reduced to a trout. When he’d finally bled out, she’d made sure to wash the body and carve the face out gently, careful for tearing. She then dragged the body to the balcony that loomed over a jagged cliffside. She tossed him over the ledge and was happy to see that the waves were pulsing towards the sea and not towards the coastline, meaning they’d take Euron’s body with it.

For a fortnight she’d managed to be seen with her own and with Euron’s face by servants and seamen alike, and no one questioned them both staying locked up in their bedchambers; everyone assumed they were too busy fucking as newly-married couples were wont to do.

∞

**_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy, and let the man be born._ **

When Jon blinks awake, it’s with that ghostly whisper in his head and the feeling of his brother curled around his back, his arms locked tight around Jon’s chest. It’s a feeling he’d missed all those years at the Wall, even before Robb’s death. The words, though, they send a chill down his spine and instinctively, he turns in his brother’s embrace, accidentally nudging the man awake in the process.

“You should sleep a little longer,” Robb mumbles without opening his eyes. “You hardly slept last night.”

“I’m okay,” Jon tells him softly, just looking at him. Robb hums and remains silent. Jon takes a deep breath, taking in the scent of something that can only be described as _home_.

A knock on the chamber door rouses them and Jon sighs, sitting up and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Another knock comes.

“Come in!” Jon calls. After a beat, Theon’s pale head pops into view, pushing inside before stopping at the sight of Jon and Robb looking curiously at him from the bed, neither ashamed of their nakedness covered only by a fur blanket pooling at their waists.

“Right,” Theon mumbles, his cheeks dusting pink before he shakes his head at them. He offers up a rolled scroll with a gloved hand, held between two nubs where fingers once were. Since coming to Winterfell, he’d grown more comfortable in showing his hands – especially after seeing Davos do so without thinking.

“This came this morning from the east.”

“The east?” Jon frowns and reaches out for the parchment that Theon hands him before bowing his head and leaving the room. Jon unrolls it and reads it through before huffing out a breath of air and passing it to his brother, who reads it out loud.

“To the King in the North: From the Hand of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains, I write to inform you that Queen Daenerys, her Dothraki horde, her army of the Unsullied, her allies and three dragons request your hospitality in greeting them upon entrance to the North and Winterfell, and call you to renounce your own claim to the North, bend the knee, and swear fealty. Upon Queen Daenerys’ arrival, if you refuse to bend the knee, it will be a sign of open rebellion and you will therefore be subject to the lawful punishment of traitors to the Crown. Signed, Tyrion of the House Lannister, Hand of the Queen.”

Robb is silent after reading the scroll. He finds himself numb the words. Jon, lying back against the pillows of their bed chamber, closes his eyes and shakes his head in defeat.

“She’s coming to Winterfell.” Robb finally manages. Jon sighs and opens his eyes, looking far too tired for this conversation.

“Why?” He asks dully. “Why is she coming _here_ , when she could go and fight Cersei, who actually _wants_ the Iron Throne? Why come here and demand that _I_ swear fealty?”

“Because right now, you seem like the easiest entrance into the Seven Kingdoms.” Robb says, setting the scroll down. Jon frowns at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ , Cersei is queen of Westeros officially, which means that she has a lot more men and money at her back. As King in the North, she’ll see you as a simpleton who is only refusing to follow Cersei, but who will easily bow before her and her dragons.”

“ _Dragons_ , Robb!” Jon says in exasperation. “She’s bringing three dragons to the North and demanding I bend the knee.”

“She is,” Robb nods. “And you’re not going to.”

“Robb,” Jon sighs and looks seriously at his brother. “The last time a Targaryen rode in on a dragon, the King in the North, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee because he knew it was the only option.”

“Well, this time, it _isn’t_ the only option.”

“Really.” Jon scowls at him. “What other options do I have?”

“We can sit down like civilized men and women and have a discussion about the future of the North and all of Westeros. We can explain that you have no interest in the Iron Throne, only to see the North as a free and independent nation, and only _after_ we can defeat the army of the dead. _That_ is our main priority, not _her_.”

Jon laughs at the indignation in Robb’s voice. Robb turns his glare on his brother, the pout making Jon smirk at him.

“I’ve heard this dragon queen is quite beautiful, as well.” Robb comments idly before swinging himself over Jon’s lap to straddle him. “She probably expects you to throw yourself at her feet and fall in love with her.” He clutches his chest dramatically, “Oh, North King! Oh, won’t you just swoon at my majestic dragons and ‘rightful claim’ to the throne!” He pushes a hand theatrically across his forehead. “Oh, Jon, won’t you just look at how beautiful I am and fall to your knees!”

Jon laughs, his head thrown back in abandon, and Robb grips his jaw, bringing their foreheads together and looking sternly into his eyes, the playfulness just barely making itself known.

“Well, _Jon_ , as long as I’m around, there will be no swooning over dragon queens and _no_ _bending the knee_.”

Jon’s hands squeeze gently at Robb’s hips, his smile turning soft. “I’m afraid my heart belongs to another.”

“Well, that’s all right then.” Robb grins, leaning down and claiming his mouth thoroughly. When he pulls back, he looks more serious. “Are we going to talk about the other night in the crypts?”

“I don’t know.” Jon shrugs, looking lost. “I don’t know what to say, Robb. I can’t explain what happened, why my hand didn’t burn, why I’ve been so _hot_ lately. I don’t understand any of this.”

“Have you…have you asked the witch?”

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “But…I might. What if she truly does know what’s happening to me?”

“Then you deserve to find out. It’s just…”

“What?” Jon frowns.

“Her magic is what got me murdered.”

“What do you mean?”

“Davos told me that she had done magic with Stannis. Blood magic. Had cast a curse for me, Joffrey, and Balon Greyjoy to die. And we all did, Jon. All of us murdered.”

“Davos never told me.” Jon says softly.

“He told me when I found the letter in your desk. I don’t trust her, Jon, but if she has answers, I want you to find them.”

“I know,” Jon kisses him and then sighs tiredly.

“I know.” Robb repeats, brushing their noses together gently. “But either way, we’ll find out, Jon. I promise you that.”

∞

“Sounds charming,” Davos mumbles sarcastically, looking down at the scroll. “Mentioning her Dothraki horde, her legion of Unsullied, and three dragons is a nice touch, in case you couldn’t figure out on your own that this isn’t a request.”

“What will we do, Your Grace?” One of the Northern Lords asks. Jon turns to look at him.

“The North has fought long and hard to become an independent nation.” Jon says. “As your chosen representative, I will refuse to bend the knee to Queen Daenerys.”

“And what about her dragons?” Sansa demands. “What will we do when you refuse and she decides to wage war?”

“We will formally address one another.” Jon explains. “We will discuss our differences and I will explain to her that we have no interest in the Iron Throne, and I will inform her of the growing threat to the North.”

“But what will we –“ Sansa is cut off by a horn sounding from outside. Jon shares a look with Robb and Davos before moving towards the doors to the courtyard. Outside, followed by many of the northern lords and ladies, the gates to Winterfell are thrown open and three horses ride in.

The figure on the first horse is startling; Jaime Lannister with short hair and a weary face stares at Jon as he dismounts and steadies his horse. The man on the horse next to him has dark hair tied back away from his face and a messy beard. He’s lean and hard-looking, though he winks at Jon as he, too, dismounts. Both men, without addressing Jon, move to help the two figures off the horse behind the two men.

The first is a heavily pregnant woman wearing a hooded cloak of dark green. As she is helped off the horse, her hood falls away from her small face and next to Jon, Sansa gasps and clutches her brother’s wrist.

“Margaery!” She exclaims in surprise. Jon looks at his sister and back at the woman standing before him. She stares back at Sansa with watering eyes and then turns to see the fourth person stumble off the horse. Jaime hefts him into a bridal carry and grunts with the effort.

“He needs a Maester.” The Kingslayer explains. “He’s got a terrible infection.”

“Yes, I am here.” Maester Wilkins steps forward and motions for two younger lads to take the other man from Jaime’s arms.

“Loras?” Sansa asks in surprise at the pale, half-starved figure of Loras Tyrell being carried away.

“Yes,” Margaery nods, moving to follow the men taking her brother.

“Your Grace,” Jaime says, stepping forward and bowing his head slightly to Jon. “Pardon the intrusion, but we’ve been riding a long ways to find you.”

“Why?” Jon demands cautiously. “Why have _you_ come here? On your sister’s orders?”

“If my sister knew that the Tyrell siblings are alive, do you think she’d have let them leave her city?” Jaime shakes his head. “My sister has…she’s lost her way in her search for power. I’ve come to offer you my sword.”

Shockingly, Jaime drops to a knee before Jon and rests his sword across his thigh. “I offer my services, Your Grace. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Jon turns to stare wide-eyed at his brother. Robb appears just as stunned as Jon is. After a moment, the knight begins to squirm anxiously.

“I…vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” Jon hesitates before remembering, “Arise,” and Jaime sheaths his sword and stands back up.

“This is…a friend.” Jaime explains, gesturing to the dark-haired man beside him.

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” Sansa says. The man, Bronn, looks over at her and grins.

“I see my reputation precedes me.”

“Not at all,” Sansa replies easily. “I was in King’s Landing that night Stannis Baratheon attempted to sack the city.”

“Ah,” Bronn nods. “You’re the Stark girl that married the Imp.” He laughs and Sansa’s cheek pink the slightest before she raises her chin to Ser Bronn.

“Yes,” she tells him. “And the Imp has turned tail and run from King’s Landing, and now so have you.”

“Lord knows how the man managed to get into the good graces of some dragon queen.” Bronn shrugs. “I’m here because this idiot decided to take off on a suicide ride across the country.”

“It wasn’t a _suicide_ ride –“

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne suddenly speaks up, entering the courtyard with Podrick in tow. Jaime and Bronn both turn to look at the tall woman. Jaime offers her a smile.

“Lady Brienne, we meet once more.”

“Where do Margaery and Loras come in?” Jon calls their attention back to the present conversation at hand. Jaime shakes his head.

“We all thought they had died, but I found them as I was leaving King’s Landing. I was going to send them on their way to Highgarden, but then she asked to come to Winterfell.”

“Whose child does she carry?”

“King Tommen’s.” Jaime sighs. “She says she didn’t know she was with child until after the burning of the sept.”

“And will this child be your nephew, or your grandchild?”

Jaime startles at the voice of Robb Stark, who until then he hadn’t paid any attention to, just knowing he needed to get into Jon Snow’s good graces most of all.

“Lord Stark! I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” Robb raises an eyebrow.

“You’re _alive_!”

“He is.” Jon nods. “Has been for several moons now. Has word not reached King’s Landing?”

“I don’t know.” Jaime shakes his head. “It took nearly two moons to get here, what with a pregnant woman and a sick man.”

“How do we know we can trust you?”

“The King in the North has already accepted my sword.” Jaime frowns. “Unless…are you King now that you’re…back from the dead?”

“No,” Robb replies. “My brother is king. And why should I trust the oaths of a man known for breaking them? You think I should leave my brother’s life in _your_ hands?”

“If I may,” Bronn cuts in casually. “The first oath he broke by stabbing a mass murderer in the back. I’d say that was more “king’s justice” than anything else. And he turned on his sister because she’s gone mad with power. Isn’t it obvious by now that he wants to fight for the good of all people? I mean, his head’s thicker than these high walls you’ve got here, but…why not ask Lady Brienne if she would trust him?”

Jon looks over at the lady knight, who returns his gaze earnestly.

“He’s saved my life, and I’ve saved his. I trust him, Your Grace.” She looks at Jaime and continues, “And I believe he truly wishes to serve on the right side.”

Jon looks back at Ser Jaime for a long moment before turning to Davos, standing just behind Sansa. “Find a place for our newest guests. They have travelled a great length to get here.”

Jaime nods to Jon in solidarity and Jon eyes him carefully as he steps closer. Quietly, so no one else can hear, he says, “Betray me, and my brother will ram a sword through _your_ back.”

“I’ve gathered,” Jaime smirks and follows Davos inside. Jon turns to Robb, who is watching the Kingslayer carefully.

“You honestly trust him? For all we know, he’s here on Cersei’s orders.”

“He’s not.” Sansa says softly to her brothers. “I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t trust Cersei. And she would never have allowed him to go this far North and away from her. Not when he’s the only family she has left.”

 

“Podrick fucking Payne,” Bronn says as he passes by the younger man. Pod smiles happily at him as the sell-sword swings his arm around the lad’s shoulders.

“Ser Bronn,” Pod laughs as he gets pulled along behind Davos.

“I honestly can’t believe you’re still alive. Woulda thought that lady knight’d leave you in the closest ditch she could find outside King’s Landing.”

“No,” Pod shakes his head. “She’s a good woman, she’d never do that. Besides,” he shrugs. “She was doing a favor for Ser Jaime.”

“Aye, I’d say you’re probably right.” Bronn nods, watching as Jaime and Brienne speak softly as they, too, follow behind Davos.

∞

Jon finds Melisandre up in the tower – the same tower where Jon and Robb had met as boys to have a few moments to themselves – looking out the south-facing window – the same window that Jaime Lannister had pushed Bran out of so many years previously – and she doesn’t turn when Jon’s footsteps come closer.

“Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” she comments idly. “And two Tyrell children who were supposed to be dead.” She finally turns her dark eyes to Jon. “The Lord of Light has brought them here for you, Jon Snow.”

“Has he?” Jon questions, not particularly caring what she says.

“Yes.” Melisandre looks back outside. “I saw it in the flames last night. People flocking through the doors of Winterfell, one after the other.”

“You murdered my brother.”

The woman stills, her breathing seeming to stop for a moment, before she straightens her spine and looks him straight in the eyes.

“I did not. The Lord of Light took Robb Stark from this world, the same way he brought him back when he was needed.” She steps closer. “And it has worked.” She cups his cheek, forcing him to look at her face. “Where there was such darkness, your soul has lightened. Not enough, no, but some. In time, perhaps you can unburden yourself from the troubles of this world.”

“Unburden myself?”

“You are a king, Jon.” She raises an eyebrow. “And a king requires a bride to produce an heir – unless you wish to see this world perish in another seventeen years when no true heir comes to claim the throne?”

“My concern is making it through the winter, not with finding a wife.” Jon steps away from her angrily.

“Such anger in you, Jon Snow. Are you angry because you know I speak the truth? Because you know that _when_ you win this war, it will not matter? Your love for your brother will never last, for heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

“I never wanted to be king.” Jon reminds her. “I never wanted _any_ of this.”

“The Lord of Light doesn’t care what you _want_! He only does what is necessary –“

“Right, like murdering innocent men with dark magic or burning children alive?”

“You believe anyone in this world is truly innocent?” She asks him. “You think Renly Baratheon was innocent? His brother was not even dead before he began plotting to take the throne from both Robert _and_ Stannis. Your brother murdered thousands on the battlefield and left nothing but destruction in his wake. You believe _he_ was innocent? Joffrey Baratheon, Balon Greyjoy, you believe _they_ were _innocent_?”

“And what of the bastard boy you attempted to sacrifice? What of the Princess Shireen?”

“Are my crimes so much worse than yours, Jon Snow?” She asks. “Did you not kill Qhorin Halfhand? Did you not betray the love of a good woman who loved you? Did you not sentence your friend at the Wall to death when you sent him into that tunnel? Did you not allow murderers through the gates of Winterfell and then hang a boy who only wanted revenge for his parents’ murders?”

“All of those things I did to save others –“

“As did I.” Melisandre tells him, her voice cold. “When Renly Baratheon died, it was quick and it ended a portion of the war. When your brother died, another portion of the war ended. When Balon Greyjoy died, it stopped the Iron Borne from reaving and raping their way across the lands. When Shireen Baratheon died, it was to wake up the next morning to see that no one had _frozen to death_ during the night.” She stands right in front of him and breathes, “We are not so different, Jon Snow. I urge you to remember that.”

And then she is gone.

∞

Jon thinks about Melisandre’s dream of people flocking to Winterfell when House Flint arrives the same day. The army is large and relatively quiet – they keep to themselves and don’t seem to mingle with any of the other regiments. Likewise, Lord Flint remains aloof and unpleasant, clearly upset that he’d been overruled by his Lady Mother.

The old woman greets Jon with a bow of her head as he stands near the training yards late in the day.

“There is something I must show you, Your Grace,” she whispers with a slow wink. Jon looks to Robb and nods for him to follow and Lady Flint brings them to a large tent outside her family’s camp. Inside is heavily layered in rugs and furs to keep it warm, and Lady Flint shoos several handmaidens from the tent before walking over to a war table set up near the side.

“It is my son’s tent, but I’ve asked him to allow me to do the honors of showing you what it is my family has kept quiet for so many years.”

Curiously, Jon watches as the woman takes a key from her shawl and unlocks a small box from which she withdraws a finely made dagger. Jon frowns, staring at how the blade gleams in the firelight, and looks questioningly at her when she holds it out for him.

“This, Your Grace, is what we have been mining on Widow’s Watch for the past ten years, refining it, working it, and making sure it was ready if it was ever needed.”

“My Lady,” Jon shakes his head at the old woman. “Forgive me, I do not understand.”

“On the island, we’ve been calling it Widow’s Vein to keep it protected, but it is more commonly known by another name.”

“What’s that?” Robb asks as Jon passes him the blade.

“Valyrian Steel.”

∞

Sansa knocks on the door to the Maester’s chambers while everyone else is eating. She suspects it might be the only time she might find a quiet moment with Lady Tyrell.

“Come in,” a soft voice calls and Sansa steps inside to find Loras sound asleep in the bed, looking thin and very pale, his forehead bandaged tightly.

“Sansa,” Margaery breathes, standing quickly and opening her arms. Sansa easily hugs her back, remembering that Margaery was at one time her friend. “I’ve missed you, my dear friend.”

“As I have missed you.” Sansa replies, though in truth, she hasn’t thought much of the Tyrell queen in some time. Margaery releases her and then sits back in her chair, moving awkwardly due to her protruding belly. Sansa can’t help but smile softly.

“How much longer do you think you have?”

“It can’t be much longer, I think.” Margaery shakes her head and rests her hands protectively over her stomach. “I had already been showing when Cersei…well. Another two moons by the time I was able to get Loras out of King’s Landing to find real help. And then the journey here…I suspect within another moon or two.”

“You were already showing at Loras’ trial? But Ser Jaimie said you hadn’t known until after you left the sept –“

“I lied.” Margaery sighs. “I didn’t want him to ask any more questions about it. He would have wanted to know if _Tommen_ knew, if _Cersei_ had known. It was easier for him to believe that I didn’t know any better than he, really.”

“I understand.” Sansa nods and then looks at Loras. “What happened to him?”

“His trial,” Margaery stares sadly at her brother. “The only way for them to let him go free was if he dedicated himself to those _awful_ people. I hadn’t realized that they would…that they would carve that wretched symbol into his face.”

“Symbol?”

“It’s the mark of the Seven. I suppose it’s hard to tell now it’s all infected. He became so ill, but I didn’t know how to get him out of the city without being detected. I managed to cobble together enough money for us to possibly find a wagon to catch a ride on. That’s when Jaime found us.”

“Margaery,” Sansa says softly. “How did you survive?”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “Though,” she reaches into a small fold in her cloak and pulls out a small coin, the mark of the Seven proudly displayed on its smooth surface. “Lancel Lannister gave this to Loras just before the trial – said it would bring him luck. He was holding it when the Sept exploded, and I was holding his hand. It was the only thing not melted or destroyed in the mess, along with us.”

“You think the coin saved you?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Margaery replies quietly, looking at the object in her hand. “I tried to get out, when I realized that Cersei and Tommen never intended to show up.”

“Do you think Tommen knew?”

“Absolutely not,” Margaery says instantly. “He was a genuinely sweet boy. I think,” she hesitates and continues sadly, “I think, if given more time, I might have actually grown to love him. It was hard to believe that someone like him could come from Cersei.” She rubs at her belly. “This child…it’s all that is left of him, now. And I won’t allow him or her to live in this mess any longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve sent a raven to my grandmother. I was afraid to do so while in King’s Landing.”

“Your grandmother…she’s supporting Daenerys Targaryen’s claim to the throne.”

“That’s what Maester Wilkins was telling me.” Margaery nods. “She did it because she thought she had no family left, but it isn’t true. I’m going back to Highgarden with Loras and I’m going to raise this child, find a suitable husband, leave all this queen nonsense behind.”

“You no longer want to be queen?”

“Do _you_?” Margaery asks. Sansa laughs.

“No, I gave up those dreams a long time ago.”

“I am terribly sorry for all that happened to you, Sansa, truly.” She grasps Sansa’s hands in her own. “All that your family has suffered, I cannot even imagine. I was so happy when I’d heard you’d gotten away from King’s Landing.”

“I didn’t, not really.” Sansa shakes her head.

“What do you mean?”

“Littlefinger was everything bad about King’s Landing. He used me as a pawn to get the Vale under his thumb, and then he married me to a monster.”

“I’d heard you had been kidnapped by the Boltons.” Margaery nods.

“Kidnapped?” Sansa’s laugh this time is much darker. “Is that what Lord Baelish told Cersei? He sold me to the Boltons at a fair price, married me to Ramsay, and then waited for the day he could ride in and pretend he was rescuing me from my ‘kidnappers’. Instead, I found my own way out.”

“That was the last word I remember we got from the North, that you had escaped Winterfell on your own. Lord Baelish seemed genuinely horrified that he didn’t know where you were.”

“As he should have been.” Sansa replies. “I was no longer a little girl when I left Winterfell then.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Sansa.” Margaery tells her honestly. Sansa sees that just like her, Margaery is not the woman she had known in King’s Landing.

“I hope you know I wasn’t the one who murdered Joffrey.”

“Oh, I know.” Margaery laughs, a startled, choked sound. “My _grandmother_ did.” Sansa blinks and considers this; after all, Lord Baelish _had_ said he had had new friends that needed help. It made sense that it would be helping Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, of the richest family in Westeros.

“Well, as long as you know.”

“I never suspected you, Sansa. Not even during the few days I thought Tyrion had done it. You don’t have the heart for it.” She pauses. “Not that that’s a terrible thing. You’re kind and honest, like your father was from what I’ve heard, and I think it’s lovely. I wish I was more like that.”

“I’m also naïve and a slow learner, but I learn.” Sansa smiles slightly at her. After a moment, she stands and brushes off her skirts. “I was thinking of retiring, but I will send someone up with some food for you.”

“Thank you, sweet girl.” Margaery says, grasping both of Sansa’s hands one more time and squeezing them gently, her eyes shining with a softness and a loneliness that Sansa had so often seen in herself.

“Good night, Lady Margaery.”

“And you, Lady Sansa.”

∞

“Your Grace!”

The shout awakens Jon from a deep, troubled sleep. He had tossed and turned at the sight of the men he had killed in the name of ‘honor’ and ‘brotherhood’.

The cry is accompanied by frantic banging on the chamber door and Jon quickly climbs out of bed and opens it, shirtless, to a flurry of activity.

“What is it?” Jon asks as he hears Robb moving behind him.

“You’re going to want to see this, Your Grace.” The guard appears momentarily startled by the scars littering Jon’s chest before he motions for Jon to get dressed and hurry. Jon does so, turning to throw a worried look at his brother. They dress quickly, striding out of the chamber only a few moments later in their cloaks and furs. Jon follows the guard down the steps and into the courtyard where a small crowd is gathering. Jon almost falters on the steps, thinking about the night he’d come out to a similar sight and had seen a cross with the word _‘Traitor’_ painted across it.

He sees Sansa exit across the way and he makes his way over first to get her before they push through the crowd. What Jon sees there does stop him in his tracks.

 _“Bran!”_ Sansa cries, rushing forward to gather the boy into her arms. Jon and Robb stand frozen just behind her, staring at the dark-haired boy that sits in a sled, wrapped in thick furs, hugging his sister tightly.

“Bran,” Robb breathes, finally moving forward and clinging to both Sansa and Bran. Jon doesn’t move – allows the Stark siblings this moment to themselves. Jon is overwhelmed with the sight of his younger brother. Desperately wishing for Bran to be alive had not prepared Jon for the emotions of actually seeing the boy again. In fact, ‘boy’ likely wasn’t even the right word. This young man was tall and lean, pale and somber-looking.

When Sansa and Robb finally allow the younger man to breathe, Jon meets Bran’s gaze.

“Jon,” Bran says softly before reaching for him. Remembering suddenly that Bran can’t walk, Jon moves stiffly forward and is pulled into a tight hug. He relaxes after a moment – reminds himself that this is his _brother_ – and allows himself to hug the man back.

“Jon,” Bran repeats, letting him go and motioning to the people with him. Jon notices Edd is there and offers the man a slight smile.

“Edd,” Jon greets, grasping the man’s hand gratefully and holding firm. They nod to each other swiftly and then Jon looks at the girl sitting to Bran’s left.

“This is Meera Reed.”

“Reed?” Jon asks in surprise.

“Yes,” the girl nods. Her face, like Bran’s, is pale and sad, but Jon sees something fierce in her that reminds him of Arya. “My father is Howland Reed.”

“I know!” Jon exclaims. “Your father is _here_.”

“What?” Meera blinks. Jon looks over at Davos who nods and goes in search of the man.

“He arrived several moons ago.”

“To help you fight the White Walkers.” Bran nods knowingly. Jon frowns over at him.

“How did you –“

“I know everything.” Bran replies slowly. “I’m the Three-Eyed Raven.”

“What is that?” Sansa asks, but Jon knows. He _knows_ , because he’d heard whispers of it when he was with the Freefolk.

“How?” Jon asks.

“It’s a very long story.” Meera sighs.

“Jon, I need to speak to you in private.”

“Right, let’s get you inside and warmed up. Edd, you can get –“

“Jon!” Bran snaps, his eyes sharp and his tongue serious. “I need to speak to you _now_. It’s important.”

“I’d listen to him, Jon.” Edd comments. “The things he says he’s seen…You’ll want to hear it.”

Jon looks between Edd, Meera, and Bran before nodding sharply and motioning for Tormund to help Edd get Bran inside. Tormund and Edd share a look between themselves before smirking at one another and hefting Bran from the cart.

A fire has been lit in the main hall and Jon sits down near it, though he finds he isn’t cold from standing outside. Not surprising, considering he now apparently can’t get _burned_. He pushes that thought aside and refocuses as the door opens and Bran is brought in on a makeshift chair with wheels. Meera is the one pushing the chair, and she sets him up next to the fire before taking a seat close to the hearth. Besides them, Robb, Sansa, Edd, and Tormund make themselves comfortable for whatever it is Bran needs to say.

The silence is broken by the door opening and Davos entering with Howland Reed trailing behind. When the man sees the girl – woman, really – sitting at the heart, his eyes widen and Meera rushes over to him.

“Father!” She cries, throwing herself into his arms. The man squeezes his daughter tightly, his mouth moving but his words too quiet for anyone but Meera to hear. Bran looks over at the man and daughter, but Jon keeps his eyes on his long-lost brother. Bran isn’t staring at Meera, but at _Howland_ , and there’s something calculating in his gaze.

“We should leave them to it.” Howland says to Meera and Bran quickly shakes his head.

“You should stay, Lord Reed.” Bran says, his voice implying that it is more than a suggestion. “After all, you know this story well.”

“I – what?” Howland frowns over at the boy in the chair. Meera seems upset about something Bran has said, but she simply tugs her father closer to the small group of people. At the same time, Davos slides into the spot beside Jon. They share a look between them and then Jon turns back to Bran.

“What is it? What’s so urgent?” Jon asks him cautiously.

“It’s about your mother.” Bran states simply. Jon’s frown deepens and Robb sucks in a breath, but it is Howland Reed with the most visceral reaction. He stands quickly and gapes at Bran before looking at Jon and then to his daughter.

“What _about_ my mother?” Jon asks quietly, confused by Howland’s reaction.

“She wasn’t a whore.” Bran says softly, appearing to be almost _apologetic_ for what he is saying.

“How could you _possibly_ –“

“Because I saw it.” Bran cuts Lord Reed off, his sharp eyes falling to the older man. “I saw my father carry her child from that tower, and you helped him keep it a secret.”

“Bran!” Jon draws his attention back to him. “What are you talking about?”

“You aren’t Eddard Stark’s son, Jon.” Bran tells him. “You’re the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Jon blinks at him and tilts his head in confusion. “Bran, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Aunt Lyanna didn’t die caught in the middle of a fight or to a fever – she died giving birth to you. She knew that if Robert Baratheon knew she had born a child of Rhaegar Targaryen, Robert would have had you murdered along with the other Targaryen children. Father promised her he would keep you safe. The only way to do that was to make sure _no one_ knew your true parentage.” Bran looks at Howland once more. “You know it’s true; you were there when my father carried Jon from that tower after watching his sister die. You told him it was a secret he would have to carry to his grave, and he _did_. My father _died_ protecting him, and now it’s the only thing that can save us, Jon.” He looks back at Jon seriously. “The Prince Who Was Promised –“

“Would be born of the Targaryen line.”

Everyone turns to see Melisandre enter the room, her red dress and ruby necklace gleaming ominously through the dim hall.

“I don’t understand,” Jon says, looking between the two. “Bran, you said you ‘saw’ this?”

“I could tell you how happy Lyanna was when she saw her brother in the tower.” Bran says gently. “I could tell you how the room smelled of incense and smelling salts. I could tell you about how she pleaded with father to protect you. I could tell you how much she _loved_ you –“

“Enough,” Jon growls, standing up swiftly and glaring at Bran before turning to Melisandre. “Visions and Three-Eyed Ravens and whatever else I’m now meant to believe are _real_ –“

“Did you not see White Walkers?” Bran asks simply. “Did you not see a man warg into an eagle? A Thenn warg into an owl?”

“How do you _know_ that?”

“Because I saw it.” Bran reminds him seriously. “I saw it all. I watched Lyanna bleed out from childbirth. I watched Rhaegar Targaryen die at Robert Baratheon’s hands.” He sighs.

“What does it even matter?” Jon demands, dread pooling in his stomach as anxiety washes over him. “So I’m Jon Sand, then? Just a _royal_ bastard now?”

“No.” Bran shakes his head.

“No.” Sam suddenly says, ducking into the room. When all eyes turn to him, a blush spreads across his face. “Sorry, I heard the last part of the conversation and – “ he clears his throat. “It was Gilly who discovered it, actually.”

“Discovered what?” Jon demands.

“Rhaegar Targaryen annulled his marriage to Elia Martell.” Sam says quickly, noticing Jon’s impatience.

“He married Aunt Lyanna in a secret ceremony.” Bran nods. “Rhaegar was paranoid, but it was because he _knew_ that he was the one to father the Prince Who Was Promised, and he _knew_ that Prince Aegon would not be it.”

“How did he know?”

“Because the Lord of Light told him.” Melisandre says confidently. Bran shakes his head.

“Because the _Old Gods_ told him.” Bran corrects her. Melisandre frowns over at him and Robb steps forward.

“They’re the ones who brought me back, Jon. If what Bran is saying is true –“

“I saw them get married, Jon.” Bran confirms. “I saw it just like I saw everything else. You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

Jon stares at everyone around him, not sure what to do, and finally his helpless eyes fall on Robb.

“It makes sense the longer you consider it, Jon.” Robb tells him gently, stepping closer and gripping him by the shoulders. “The reason father was always so protective of you, but how he never quite treated you like a son. The way he would sometimes look at you. The reason he never spoke of your mother, not ever.” He hesitates. “If you’re part Targaryen…it might explain other things, too.”

“You’ve been having visions.” Bran speaks. “You’ve touched fire but not been burned, you’ve dreamed of things that have happened and some that seem too _impossible_ to happen – dreams that hold more truth than you can ever know.”

“My king,” Melisandre says, stepping forward. “If this is true...you are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

“Not Daenerys.” Robb whispers.

 


	15. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Just FYI, yes I know the show named Jon “Aegon”, but since I would rather live blissfully unaware of Rhaegar or Lyanna being such massive dicks to Elia’s own son, I chose to use Jaehaerys.

 

Howland Reed’s sobs echoed through Jon’s head over and over. For as long as he lived, Jon didn’t think he would ever forget the sound of a father’s heart breaking over the death of his child. Bran had tried to soften the blow; he had explained that Jojen Reed had known before he’d left home that he would die and had chosen to go anyways. It was a small consolation.

Jon had demanded that Bran start at the beginning. He had expected Bran to begin after Osha had helped him and Rickon escape with Hodor, but instead the young man started speaking of vivid dreams of being inside Summer’s body, of seeing a three-eyed raven leading him to the crypts before their father – _no_ , _not_ your _father_ , he thought numbly – had ever been executed. He talked about Osha’s cryptic statements about her people’s superstitions, about his dream of Jon and Robb in the woods before he met Jojen, about Jojen and Meera coming to help him specifically. He talked about the journey North, how it was _Bran_ who had helped Jon fight the Wildlings near the tower when they’d discovered Jon was lying to them, how Sam had guided them past the Wall, and then about being at Craster’s Keep.

“You wouldn’t have let me go, Jon.” Bran told him solemnly, his eyes clear and steady. “And I _had_ to find the Three-Eyed Raven.”

He talked about making it to the cave and meeting the Children – _the Children!_ – and how he’d trained so long to _see_ what he was meant to see.

“He showed me Father as a boy, teaching Uncle Benjen how to fight, and Hodor! I saw Hodor, and he could talk!”

Jon’s head was spinning by the time Bran described Lyanna Stark naming Jon – _His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen_ – and begging Ned to keep him safe. Howland had agreed with Bran that he had helped Ned keep Jon’s true heritage a secret.

Now, Jon sits by the fireplace in his bedchamber, his eyes on the fire but not truly seeing it. Robb is somewhere behind him, allowing Jon time to try and process all that Bran had told him. It was too much to be believed. He was no one; he was nothing. Jon wasn’t Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, he was the bastard son of Eddard Stark. Everything Jon had believed about himself was built on that basic principle, and now his youngest living brother was telling him it was built on a lie – _he_ was built on a lie.

“Jon,” Robb finally whispers. Jon shifts slightly, allowing his brother – _not your brother_ – to know he was listening. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

“I –“ Jon begins, but finds he has nothing to say. He doesn’t know what is going on in his head any more than Robb does. It was a maze of _annulment_ and _secret ceremony_ and _Jaehaerys Targaryen_ and Three-Eyed Ravens and wargs and –

“Jon.”

Jon sighs and turns to look at Robb. His blue eyes carry so much worry and concern, it makes Jon’s heart ache a little. His red hair glints in the firelight and his undershirt is unbuttoned, giving Jon a view of his broad chest, the fine red hair that curls there, his flat stomach.

“I don’t know what to say.” Jon tells him truthfully.

“Say anything!” Robb says, finally moving towards him and kneeling on the rug before Jon’s feet. “Are you all right?”

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “I don’t…” He sighs and pushes himself away from the chair. Robb stands back up and watches Jon pace before the fire.

“My whole life, Robb,” Jon begins, “I’ve lived with this weight of never knowing who my mother was. Father – Eddard Stark _was_ my father. I had no need to question that, whatever else I may have been unsure of. I was Jon Snow, the bastard son of Ned Stark, and now…now I’m…not.”

“You still are his son, Jon.” Robb tells him earnestly. “You may be his nephew by blood, but he _raised_ you. He’s as much your father as he is mine.”

“But it isn’t that simple, Robb!” Jon exclaims. “Because if what they’re telling me is true, then I’m not a bastard at all. I suddenly have a birth right. I’m now supposedly the heir to the Iron Throne, and that is so outside the realm of anything I thought possible.”

“I know,” Robb nods.

“I mean, even if…even if I was Lyanna’s son and not our – and not Eddard Stark’s, I’d be a bastard still and I could maybe accept that.”

“But you aren’t a bastard at all.” Robb says, finally catching on to the mixed feelings Jon is attempting to describe.

“No, I’m the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, crown prince to the Targaryen throne, and no one ever knew.” He turns back to the fire. “It changes things, because it means Lyanna Stark chose to leave with him, it means that Elia Martell was murdered _for nothing_ , because she wasn’t the queen-to-be! It means _I’m not who I thought I was_.”

“Listen to me, Jon.” Robb grips his shoulders and turns him so that Jon is looking him in the eye. “I will tell you _exactly_ who you are. _You_ are Jon Stark. You are the King in the North. You are my best friend, my family, my love. Whatever else…if you choose to ignore your claim to the Iron Throne, if you choose to take the Targaryen name over the Stark name, if you decide to become king of fucking Westeros, I will stand by your side. Because who you are hasn’t changed at all, Jon. You’re still the body with so much honor, you put father to shame. You’re the boy who brought the Wildings and the Northerners together. You’re the boy who died for his people and was resurrected, same as me. You’re the boy with the solemn face and the darkest curls. You’re the boy I fell in love with as a child and continue to love as a man. _That_ is who you are.”

“I love you.” Jon breathes, his forehead resting against Robb’s.

“I love you.” Robb repeats back, his hands coming to rest in Jon’s curls as he lifts his chin to place a kiss on his brother’s – _cousin’s_ – forehead. “And come what may, I will always love you.”

⧞

Cersei uses a single finger to hold back the edge of the curtain to her left and peers out at the sunlit towers of Highgarden. The steady _thump-thump-thump_ of the horses continues in endless rhythm as the carriage she resides in gets ever closer to that grand fortress. As the cart comes over a large hill in the road, she finally sees the full castle in all its glory, but something seems wrong with the picture.

“Your Grace,”

She finally shoves the whole curtain aside to see the face of Randyll Tarly, weathered and angry, staring at her.

“What is it?” She demands.

“We aren’t quite sure, Your Grace. But, no force has yet come out to meet us.”

“They are waiting for us to come closer?” Cersei frowns at him.

“I do not know, Your Grace. It is possible,” he seems uncertain.

“But?” Cersei presses in irritation.

“It would do them no good, Your Grace. They would be outnumbered, since half of their force would have made for the Targaryen girl’s army.  They should be offering an easy defeat, yet there is no one here at all.”

Cersei sits back and ponders this. Lord Tarly had a point; why wouldn’t Olenna’s men simply come and offer surrender immediately?

“Get me a horse.” Cersei finally says to the old knight. “I shall ride the rest of the way myself.”

“My Queen, I cannot allow you to go on your own.”

“Then gather a dozen men to escort me.” Cersei snaps. Lord Tarly nods his head and takes off in search of a horse for her. She pushes open the door to her carriage and is helped down its small steps to the gravel below her. She brushes at her skirts and shields her eyes to look upon Highgarden.

She catches sight of a dark figure standing on one of its many balconies. Her lips twitch slightly, knowing exactly who the silhouette belongs to.

 

Inside, Olenna Tyrell is seated at a small table, idly swishing her wine around in her glass. When Cersei enters, she sets her glass down with a sharp ring and leans back in her seat.

“I had hoped it would be you.” The old woman says simply. Cersei’s lips thin in displeasure, but otherwise she remains composed.

“Where are your men?”

“My men?”

“The men sworn to your house since before you were born.” Cersei growls. The old woman has the audacity to appear smug.

“Which ones would you be referring? I have so many allies, it’s often hard to keep track most days. I see the Tarlys have moved to your side, congratulations on that. I would suggest watching out for Lord Tarly, he can be awfully shrewd. His son isn’t half as cunning as Randyll, but I’m sure in time –“

“I’m bored of your idle chatter.” Cersei sighs. “Where are the men who you retained after turning tail to help a Targaryen usurper?”

“It is funny that you should use that term, as you are also a usurper, as was your late husband. Did it feel good, killing my granddaughter? Killing your son’s wife and, in turn, leading to his own death.”

Cersei’s hands settle on the back of the wooden chair opposite the old woman, her knuckles white with rage. She leans forward and hisses, “Where are your other men?”

“I want to hear you say it, first.” Olenna replies. “I want to hear you tell me how good it felt to kill my granddaughter. How much you longed to murder her the moment she came here. Would have been much better for Sansa to have married Joffrey, no?”

“I admit it.” Cersei comments, releasing her grip on the chair and seeming to relax into the conversation. “I loved every minute of your granddaughter’s death. I imagine it was rather quick, but excruciating for the short while it lasted.”

“Hmm, I suspected as much.” Olenna nods thoughtfully. She lifts her wine glass and lifts it to her lips, draining it of its contents and then putting the glass back down. “You are correct that half of my men went to the aid of the Targaryen girl – rather impulsive, I admit. She’s a young girl who thinks she knows what it means to rule, but she has no idea. The other half of my men are at this moment making their way to Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Cersei pauses, her frown deepening. “Why on earth would you send your remaining men north?”

“Because, _My Queen_ ,” Olenna smiles sharply. “It turns out that you did _not_ kill my granddaughter _or_ my grandson. They are very much alive and safe at Winterfell with your brother, Jaime.”

“Is this meant to make me nervous? I’ve seen what wildfire does to people. If you’ve received information that they are alive, someone has been quite cruel to you.”

“I had thought as much, too, but the proof came in the form of a drawing at the very bottom of the page: Margaery had given me a drawing of a rose before I left her alone in King’s Landing, and she returned the same image to me just a few days ago.”

Cersei remains frozen, unsure how to take it. Is it possible? Are Margaery and Loras Tyrell truly alive?

“I took the risk of remaining here, unprotected, because I knew that Winterfell would need all the help they could get. So now I suppose the song has come true at last: _now the rains weep o’er our halls with no one there to hear_. I did unspeakable things to protect my family, so now I’ve done the selfless thing and risked myself.

“Only, that isn’t quite true.” Olenna continues thoughtfully. “Because I only sent _half_ my army to Winterfell. The other half continue to follow Daenerys Targaryen to Winterfell where she will meet with Jon Snow. I knew Ned Stark, and I’ve heard his bastard son is much the same; he’ll never give up the north to a dragon. Yet, when she learns that you’ve overtaken Highgarden, she’ll see it as an insult and likely fly into a rage as she’s rather known for doing. She’ll come for you, Cersei. And I wish I could see it when she does.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be seeing much of anything from a cell under the Red Keep.”

“I have no intention of joining your many prisoners in King’s Landing.” Olenna tells her. “I’ve already taken precautions to ensure that whatever else happens, my death won’t be violent.” Her finger circles the wine glass and Cersei’s gaze zeroes in on the action. With a heavy sigh, she shakes her head at the old woman.

“It was to be expected, I suppose. I imagine torturing you wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying.”

“No, no, torture was never something I thought highly of. This will be slow, but relatively painless.” She pauses, smiles, “Unlike what happened to your son, not at all what I had intended.”

For a moment, it feels as if the room has lost all its air. Cersei’s nostrils flare as she attempts to reason with herself to not strangle the old woman.

“You.”

“Me.” Olenna nods. “Your son truly was a cunt.”

⧞

Daenerys wanders around the encampment of Unsullied soldiers and shudders as a cold wind swirls the few flakes of snow around her. She’s never been to a place where she could see her own breath, and she finds she rather hates it. The soldiers seem to be faring okay, their sleeveless armor having given way to long sleeves of chains and iron plating. She wonders if she’d be able to tell if they were suffering from the weather, but finds it wouldn’t truly matter – they would do anything for her, and she is grateful for them.

The Dothraki have large amounts of furs to keep themselves warm, and their roaring fires are shared by all sorts of her allies.

She spies a lone, small figure standing off to the side of the men warming themselves by the morning fire and makes her way over. Tyrion Lannister looks up at her as she approaches, a piece of parchment in his hands. She already knows she won’t like what she’s about to hear. She steels herself for more bad news.

“What is it?” She asks without ceremony.

“Highgarden,” Tyrion tells her solemnly.

“What of it?” Tyrion hesitates a moment before offering the small letter.

_Highgarden has fallen at the behest of Queen Cersei. Lady Tyrell is dead. Long life the rightful queen._

  * _Qyburn, Hand of the Queen_



 

“She’s taken Highgarden?” Daenerys demands furiously. Tyrion sighs and nods his head.

“I’m afraid so.”

She turns on her heel and marches back from where she’d come, her eyes fixed on the dark wings of Drogon.

“Queen Daenerys, wait!” Tyrion implores her, trying to keep up with her quick strides.

“I’m losing this war!” She rages. “I’ve lost the Greyjoys, I’ve lost the Tyrells.”

“You still have a larger army than hers!” Tyrion argues.

“Highgarden was providing the food for the people! Without Lady Tyrell, we can’t _feed_ my army.”

“We can get it back as soon as we have the North on our side! _This_ is the right plan!”

“The right plan?!” The dragon queen spins to glare at him. “The Iron Islands have been lost to the North, the Tyrells are dead, and Cersei is sitting on the Iron Throne. Marching to Winterfell isn’t going to win me a war, it’s going to be more sitting and chatting than any action that can be done to rectify the situation.”

“I’ve underestimated the power of our enemy’s tactical plans, I admit –“

“Our _enemy_? You mean your sister and your brother. Your _family_. Perhaps you want me to go North so that your sister has enough time to bring the food and gold that Olenna Tyrell gave to us back to King’s Landing so that we will _starve_ before we can march from Winterfell _with or without_ more men.”

At the sound of her raised voice, Viserion makes a low growl which Raegal echoes. Drogon turns his dark eyes on Daenerys and Tyrion. Dany meets her dragon’s eyes and says, “I’m tired of waiting. Cersei brought the war to a place and food that was rightfully given _to me_. I’m going to get it _back_.”

“We’ve discussed –“

“Cersei was at Highgarden, which means she’ll be on her way back to King’s Landing. I have three dragons and I am going to _destroy_ Cersei Lannister.” She looks back at Tyrion. “What kind of queen would not do the same thing?”

“A smart one.” Tyrion snaps at her.

“I’m at war!” She shouts. “I’m _losing_.”

“If you take your dragons to meet the Lannister army, what kind of message are you sending to the people of Westeros? That you’re here to conquer them with dragon fire? How does that make you any different from Cersei?”

“No one has seen a dragon in hundreds of years.” Daenerys tells him. “Yet, here they are. And so, here I am.”

“You are a strong and just queen,” Tyrion tries to satisfy her. “But if you continue to insist on impulsivity, then I’m afraid –“

“Impulsive?” Daenerys demands.

“You can’t yet anticipate Cersei’s actions, and riding into a potential trap –“

“Cersei Lannister has just sacked Highgarden, the richest piece of Westeros, and she is now going home with more gold and food than she could possibly know what to do with.” Daenerys finally straightens up and begins marching for her dragons once more.

“You once told me that to win a war, you have to see things the way your enemy does.” Daenerys calls back to Tyrion. “And right now, Cersei sees herself as winning. I’m about to _break_ her faith.”

⧞

“The gold was sent off last night, My Queen.” Randyll Tarly informs Cersei as she walks amongst the troops. The stench of blood and shit is strong in the air, but one look at Cersei’s straight back and elegant strides would make it seem as if she’s walking through the Red Keep and not the masses of tired soldiers.

“Good,” is all she says in response, looking at the men sitting by the small pond washing their faces.

“My Queen,” Lord Tarly begins, then seems to think better of it. Cersei’s eyes turn sharply to him and she stops mid-stride, turning to look at the older man.

“What is it?”

“I wanted to ask…I am ever grateful for the opportunity to lead this endeavor, but there’s been talk about where your brother is.” Cersei stiffens at the mention of her brother. “Is it true, My Queen? Has your brother gone to Winterfell?”

“Jaime left my side several moons passed.” She tells him tightly. “The day he left was the day he ceased to be my brother.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Lord Tarly nods as his son, whose name Cersei fails to recall, makes his way over. “Ah, Dickon.” Randyll rumbles. “We need to get these last wagons over those hills before nightfall, and then we should be able to get to King’s Landing within the week.”

“We’re stretched a bit thin, father.” Dickon Tarly says warily.

“Your Grace,” Randyll turns back to Cersei. “I’ve noticed that flogging has had a marked effect on stragglers.” Cersei raises an eyebrow at him and then looks at Dickon.

“Perhaps…” the tall boy begins, “a warning would work first?”

“Fine,” Cersei waves both of them away and continues her walk in silence. As she nears her own carriage, Qyburn steps forward to greet her.

“My Queen,” he bows his head. “I heard that young man fought quite bravely at Highgarden.”

Cersei turns to observe Dickon Tarly as he sits atop his horse speaking to a group of men. He is a handsome man, with the beginnings of stubble at his sharp jaw and well-kept hair. He seems a little simple-minded, but makes up for it with his stature and brute force, she supposes.

“Yes,” she comments idly before looking back at him. “You’ve sent word?”

“Yesterday, Your Grace. I imagine the raven would have been received by now.”

“Good,” Cersei smiles and moves to enter her carriage when a hand on her arm stops her. She turns to see Qyburn gripping her arm but staring off past her shoulder. She turns as well to observe the horizon.

“What is it?” She demands.

“Listen,” Qyburn whispers. She falls quiet and attempts to hear something besides the distant chatter and laughter from the soldiers around the wagons. After a moment, a faint rumbling sound comes to her.

“What is that?” She asks, eyes blinking open once more to stare at her Hand.

“I don’t –“

“Soldiers!” A booming voice rings out. Cersei sees Lord Tarly suddenly come speeding around the men on his horse. “Get ready!”

“Oh dear,” Qyburn whispers. “My Queen, it may be best to retire to your carriage.” Cersei nods and gathers her skirts to ascend into the small cabin for herself. After a moment, Qyburn enters as well and sits opposite her. Cersei flicks the curtain aside to see outside the carriage.

“Spears and shields!” Randyll Tarly is shouting, and she can hear armor clinking together and swords being drawn.

When it seems like the thundering of the ground cannot get any louder, the first shadows of Dothraki fighters come over the hill, shrieking and calling out to the Lannister army. Cersei watches it impassively, the only sign of her nervousness in the way her jaw seems locked in place. Impossibly, it seems like the number of soldiers just keeps coming; they so clearly outnumber the forces Cersei has with her.

And then, like some sort of nightmare, a heavy roar echoes across the sky and suddenly there is a dragon coming out of the clouds, followed shortly by another dragon. As the gigantic beasts come flying towards the stash of wagons, Cersei can just barely make out the small figure with white hair atop the darker dragon.

What follows is nothing short of absolute chaos as the Dothraki rampage through the line of Lannister soldiers and the Targaryen girl’s dragons set the rest ablaze. It is in the midst of it that Cersei finds the rage that had been lost to the numbness of Tommen’s death and Jaime’s betrayal. Now, the fury wells up within her and she finds herself pushing out of the carriage without a second thought, despite Qyburn screaming for her to come back. She makes her way past burning men, screaming boys, and wagons completely blown to pieces until she finds the cart she wanted.

Shoving inside, Cersei smiles to herself and pulls the rope to unlatch the canvas walls of the cart. What remains is the weapon Qyburn had worked so hard to master over many months: the arrow that would take down a dragon.

Cersei had never been trained for war; she had never been in the midst of a battle, and she certainly had never watched dragons destroy everything she had fought for. Here, Cersei decides that her lack of expertise is of no importance. She is confident that she can do what needs to be done. The Targaryen bitch will never sit on the throne her ancestors built.

It takes all of her strength to position the arrow towards where one of the dragons is flying, searching for more areas to demolish. Atop his back is the dragon queen, and Cersei’s world narrows to this single second. She lets out a slow breath and releases the lever, sending the large arrow careening through the sky.

The white-haired girl notices and the dragon lurches quickly out of range, but it isn’t enough to save the dragon flying above him at a distance. The arrow hits at the base of the skull and comes straight through at the back of its great head. The dragon doesn’t have a chance to make a sound, dead the moment the arrow struck, and its body plummets to the earth below. Soldiers scurry out of the way as the dragon the Targaryen girl is riding lets out a feral cry as its sibling crashes into the dirt.

For a moment, the Targaryen girl’s eyes meet Cersei’s, the anger Cersei feels within herself mirrored in this child’s gaze. A cruel smile pulls at her lips at the sight of the Dothraki’s panic and Daenerys’ rage.

Cersei has never been trained for war; she had never been in the midst of a battle, and she certainly had never watched dragons fly across the smoke-filled sky. But now, she feels more than a queen; she feels like the warrior her father never believed she could be.

⧞

Theon wrings his wrist with a mangled hand, pacing before the fire in the Great Hall. It’s gotten exceptionally late, everyone else already asleep, but he’s too restless to even think about sleeping. He knows he needs to tell Jon – he’s put off doing so for a fortnight as they all wait for the dragon queen’s arrival – but enough is enough.

A sound behind him draws his attention to a lone shadow emerging into the Great Hall. It takes a moment for Theon to place exactly who the man is before it finally dawns on him – Loras Tyrell.

“Loras,” Theon says, startled. The man looks much better than when he first arrived. The swelling in his forehead has gone, but the symbol of the Seven remains red and irritated-looking. His hair hangs limply across his forehead, mostly covering it, and he’s lost quite a bit of weight over the many months he spent ill.

“Lord Greyjoy,” Loras comments softly. He puts his hand on the back of one of the chairs at the head table, unsteady and unsure. “I awoke and found myself rather hungry. I was…trying to find the kitchen.” He says sheepishly. Theon smiles at him and holds up a small roll of bread he holds in his own hand.

“I had a similar idea.” He motions to the bowl on the table closest to the fire where a few more rolls sit, by now cold and a little hard, but decent. Loras nods and slowly walks towards him, seeming wary of getting close to Theon. It’s a look Theon knows well.

Loras delicately chooses a roll and tears off a piece, chewing thoughtfully before finally looking back at Theon.

“You were a prisoner, right?” Theon asks him. Loras blinks in surprise at the question, then nods.

“I was.” He swallows. “The High Sparrow arrested me for my…”

“For liking men, yes.” Theon nods. Even with the shadows the fire casts upon the two men, he can see the blush form on Loras’ cheek. “No need to be shy. The Northern gods are less concerned with the comfort one man may find in another.”

“I don’t think it matters _where_ you are. A lord is meant to find a suitable bride, have children, and die in a state of great wealth.”

“There are lots of things lords are meant to do.” Theon agrees. “And dragons aren’t meant to exist, White Walkers are meant to be old nan’s tales, and bastards aren’t _meant_ to be kings. But here we are.”

Loras smiles slightly and nods, “Here we are.”

“I was a prisoner once, too.” Theon says quietly. Loras looks at him before nodding again.

“You were taken by the Boltons, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You aren’t.” Theon sighs, looking back at the flames. “I turned my back on my family and got exactly what I deserved.”

“I don’t think anyone deserves what Bolton’s bastard did to you.” Loras comments, startling Theon. He looks over at the lord from Highgarden with wide eyes and Loras shrugs.

“Gossip is gossip, no matter where you are. The whole of the Seven Kingdoms knew about Renly and me, the same as they knew that Roose Bolton had taken the Greyjoy boy hostage and given him over to his bastard son.”

“Yes, well.” Theon once more turns back to the fire. Loras moves a little closer, finishing off his roll. Theon tosses his own piece of bread into the flames and watches it blacken.

“It’s an awful feeling, isn’t it?” Loras asks. “Realizing that your life is no longer your own, but in the hands of someone you have no control over?”

“Terrifying,” Theon agrees.

“I begged my sister to bow before that fraud of a High Sparrow. I couldn’t handle it in those cells. But it was wrong of me to ask that of her.” Loras shakes his head at himself. “Margaery was always so much stronger than me.”

“Asha is the fiercest person I know. When she tried to rescue me, I betrayed her.”

“And I betrayed Margaery by forcing her to try and save _me_.”

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we.” Theon laughs, turning to look at the Tyrell boy.

“I suppose we are.”

They part ways shortly after, Loras wandering back to his rooms to go back to sleep and Theon finally finding the courage to stand before Jon’s bedchamber door. He raps twice on the heavy wood and waits. Slight shuffling can be heard through the door before it’s opened, and Robb is blinking blearily at him.

Theon’s heart stutters sharply at the sight of his oldest friend. Even after all this time, it is still such a shock to be reminded that Robb isn’t dead any longer, he’s alive and breathing and…staring at Theon in tired confusion. Theon clears his throat.

“I was wondering if Jon – I mean, _His Grace_ – is awake.”

“His…Yeah, come in.” Robb says around a yawn, opening the door a little wider and allowing Theon to step inside. Jon is sitting on the edge of the bed tying his boots. His dark curls are falling all over his face and comically, he keeps trying to shove them away without actually tying them up.

“Struggling?” Theon asks, raising an eyebrow. Jon scowls over at him.

“Shut it, Greyjoy.” He says, though Theon can tell he’s more amused than angry. Robb wanders past them, stretching his arms above his head as Jon finishes tying up his laces and stands.

“What did you need?” Jon asks.

“I…have something I need to show you.”

“You know, when we were children, you saying something like that never ended well for me.” Jon points out. Theon smiles slightly and shrugs.

“We aren’t children anymore.” He motions to the door. “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” Jon nods and steps around Theon to kiss Robb softly. Theon averts his eyes, but thinks to himself that it might be a blessing for Jon to be a Targaryen rather than a Stark, if only for their relationship to not get them killed.

Theon leads Jon outside and past the front gates. He can tell Jon is getting more confused the longer they walk, but it isn’t something Theon can just come out and _say_ , it’s something he has to show him.

After a long time of walking in silence, Jon finally speaks.

“Theon, where in the seven hells are you taking me?”

“We’re almost there,” he promises.

“Almost _where_?”

“You’ll see.”

Theon finally stops and Jon nearly runs into him.

“Theon, what –“

Theon whistles loudly, cutting Jon off, and the entire forest seems to fall into silence. Then, a low rumble comes and the earth beneath their feet shakes slightly. Jon steps around Theon slowly just as he catches sight of white scales, large icy blue eyes, and jagged teeth.

Jon’s entire body freezes as the dragon lifts its head and roars.

⧞

The roar is faint to Bran’s ears where he sits before the fireplace in one of the studies. So faint, it could be mistaken for the wind that blows around the fortress. Unlike the many who would do so, Bran knows exactly what it is because he’d seen it many moons before.

 _All in good time_ , Bran thinks to himself, but the voice sounds like the old Three-Eyed Raven rather than Bran’s own voice.

He lets out a deep breath and then his eyes glaze over as he finds the eyes of the raven. He can feel the frigid wind as it rushes through the raven’s feathers. It reminds him of climbing the towers of Winterfell.

It all falls away as the raven soars over the seven-hundred-foot Wall to see the army of the dead coming. A look at the few men left to guard the Wall shows they’re already sending off the ravens for the North bearing the news.

The Night King is sitting atop his horse at the head of the army. As the remaining Night’s Watch men all prepare to put up as good a fight as they can manage, the Night King slides off the horse and hands the reigns off to his lieutenant before walking calmly towards the Wall. A few flaming arrows sail towards the army, but those that manage to hit any of the bodies makes no difference – they’re already dead.

The Night King finally comes to a stop before the Wall and lays his hand on the icy surface. Through the raven’s eyes, Bran watches as he looks up the length of the Wall and then looks back at his army. After a moment, he nods to one of the lieutenants, which then turns and motions to three of the giants that stand amongst the other soldiers.

The three giants move to the front and all produce large bows and arrows, the tips of the arrows carved from dragon glass. Without having to be told, in unison the three nock their arrows, lean back, draw back, and release.

The moment the dragon glass crashes into the Wall, a series of heavy cracks shatter the ice and the sound carries across the land. Just as the Wall starts to crumble, Bran blinks back into his body and looks for a moment at the flames before he turns in his seat. Samwell Tarly is sitting a few feet away, scribbling notes in a journal.

“Sam,” Bran says, causing the older boy to look up at him. “You need to go get Jon.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

“The Wall has fallen.”

⧞

“That is it?” Grey Worm asks, staring at the dark fortress of Winterfell. Beside him on his own horse, Tyrion nods.

“That is Winterfell, yes.”

“Very small,” Grey Worm mumbles. Tyrion can’t help but smile at the blunt statement.

“What will you tell them?” Missandei asks, frowning at the dwarf.

“What do you mean?”

“Queen Daenerys is not here. What will you tell them?”

“I will tell them that she appreciates their hospitality and their patience.” Tyrion says, though he knows that isn’t exactly what the young girl means. Daenerys not being here after making her demands is bad form, but no one else seems to understand that because they don’t understand Westeros.

“If you are sure.” Missandei says with a furrowed brow.

They make it to the front gates and are waved inside.

“Podrick,” Tyrion greets the young squire with a gentle smile.

“My Lord,” Podrick nods to him before directing his attention to two figures Tyrion had _not_ expected to find at Winterfell.

“ _Jaime_?” Tyrion stares at his brother standing beside fucking _Bronn_.

“Tyrion,” Jaime nods to him, looking every bit the gallant knight Tyrion had always known he was.

“What are you doing here?” He demands.

“Fucker ran off to join this lot.” Bronn cuts in before Jaime can answer. Tyrion frowns as Jaime throws the knight a dark glare.

“I’ve pledged my sword to the King in the North.” Jaime informs his younger brother. “Cersei has…”

“Truly become the Mother of Madness?” Tyrion finishes for him. Jaime smiles reluctantly but doesn’t correct him.

“My Lords,” Brienne of Tarth steps away from the doors to the feasting hall cautiously, drawing everyone’s attention. “The King is ready for you.”

Tyrion shares a look with Missandei before they follow the female fighter into the hall. Missandei shudders as she finally feels heat after so much cold, but Tyrion doesn’t notice the difference. He’s struck by the image of Robb Stark, alive and well, standing at the head of the main table.  

“Your Grace,” Tyrion begins, his eyes on Robb’s face as he takes a step closer. “I must admit it is a bit of a shock to see you alive.”

“I’m a Lord, Lord Tyrion.” Robb comments dryly. “I am not a king.”

“I…I had heard that the King in the North was once again ruling the North.” Tyrion responds with a frown.

“He is,” Robb smiles slyly. “My brother is the King in the North.” He nods to Jon who is seated behind him at the table next to Sansa and Bran.

“Jon Snow,” Tyrion looks surprised by this revelation. “Your bastard brother is King in the North?”

“Actually,” Robb smiles pleasantly but Jon stands before he can go any further.

“Yes,” Jon says firmly. Robb turns and looks at him for a moment before nodding his head and striding around the table to take his seat at his brother’s side. After a moment, Tyrion steps closer. His eyes fall to Sansa, seeming so much older than the last time he’d seen her.

“Lord Tyrion,” she greets him. Tyrion nods to her and sits across from Jon Snow, the bastard he’d last left at the Wall.

“King Snow,” Tyrion comments wryly. Jon smiles at him but Robb shakes his head.

“He’s been granted the name Stark, actually.” Robb corrects the dwarf. Tyrion raises an eyebrow.

“A name does not change who one is.” He says to the bastard boy. Jon nods to him in understanding, though the comment seems to irk Robb.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon begins. “You appear to be missing an important figure.”

Tyrion sighs, but he’s glad they’ve finally gotten to the real issue.

“Queen Daenerys was unfortunately delayed in her voyage here. She should be here within the next few days.”

“You travelled separately?” Jon frowns.

“Not exactly,” Tyrion says uncertainly.

“She went to war.” Tyrion turns to look at the crippled boy, so much older than he was the last time Tyrion ever saw him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Daenerys Targaryen took two dragons and went to war.” Bran repeats calmly. “It’s why she isn’t here with you and why only one dragon arrived here with you.”

“I – yes, Cersei took Highgarden. Daenerys took the Dothraki to battle.”

“So, your queen left with half of your army and you don’t know when she’s coming back, _if_ she’s coming back.” Jon tries to understand. Tyrion hesitates.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“Then until she arrives, _if_ she arrives, we will desist of having a discussion.” Jon says, sliding away from the head table. Robb stands along with Sansa, who wraps her fingers around the handles to Bran’s chair.

“My Lord – _Your Grace_ – I must insist that we begin –“

“The Wall has fallen, Lord Tyrion.” Jon tells the dwarf. Tyrion frowns at him.

“That’s impossible.”

“You said the same thing once about White Walkers, but I’ve seen them.” Jon tells him seriously. “I hope Daenerys gets here before they do, otherwise we’re all doomed.”

Jon then turns and leaves the Dining Hall. Tyrion looks over at Missandei.

“I don’t understand,” she says with a frown. “Wall? White Walkers?”

“These Northerners…they have their notions.” Tyrion shakes his head. “But one thing is clear; the queen needs to be here _now_.”


	16. Curious Impossibilities

The dragons’ cries are the first things Tyrion hears before he looks out to the horizon. The steady beat of heavy wings echoes across the snowy land. Drogon’s black wings tear through the sky and Tyrion catches sight of the queen’s white hair.

Drogon lands heavily beside his brother on the ground, lowering his shoulder so that his mother may gracefully step down. Tyrion waits, but no other dragon appears in the sky alongside Daenerys. Immediately, Missandei rushes forward to check on her, but Daenerys shakes her head at the girl, lifting a hand to her as she steps closer to Tyrion.

“What happened?” He demands as Daenerys marches towards him. Her dark coat is blood-soaked, her hair a tangled mess, and her eyes are burning with rage.

“Cersei Lannister.” Daenerys grits out.

“Where is Viserion?” Missandei asks softly and Daenerys’ eyes turn watery as she looks at her friend. The absolute devastation that overtakes her features is answer enough.

“How?” Tyrion asks.

“They had a weapon – a catapult for a large arrow. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“An arrow…and afterwards?”

“Members of her Queen’s Guard escaped with her and the weapon. The Dothraki rounded up the remaining soldiers.”

Tyrion looks over to where the Dothraki have returned, cleaning their weapons and talking boisterously. They’d arrived the night before, saying the _Khaleesi_ would be there when she got there. Tyrion always hated how vague and unhelpful they could be.

“Where are the remaining prisoners?”

When Daenerys does not immediately answer, he turns back to look at her. The rage is back, and a pit opens in the dwarf’s stomach. She can’t mean…

“My Queen, where are the prisoners you took?”

“The few who bent the knee are amongst the Dothraki somewhere.” She waves her hand vaguely in that direction, seemingly exhausted.

“And the _rest_?”

“I gave them a choice.” She snaps down at him. “They could bend the knee and join me, or refuse and die.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Tyrion scrubs at his face and turns, shaking his head. He spins back around to pin her with an angry stare. “This is _not_ the way to get people to join you.”

“I’ve done things your way long enough.” Daenerys spits. “Time and time again, yet it has only ever cost me allies.”

“And you’ve just murdered soldiers who could have _been_ allies!”

“They refused to see me as the rightful queen –“

“Because they don’t see you that way!” Tyrion shouts. “If you come into this country burning down anyone and anything that refuses to immediately bow –“

“I will do what is necessary to get what is mine.”

Tyrion’s jaw clenches as he watches this girl before him, her shoulders straight and her gaze steady. _My gods_ , he thinks _, she truly believes what she’s saying._

Before any more words can be said, Daenerys turns to Missandei.

“Is this King of the North here?”

“Yes,” Missandei nods.

“About that,” Tyrion interjects, drawing her irritation once more. “There was a piece of information left out of the message about the King in the North.”

“What kind of information?”

“Robb Stark is alive and well, that is true.” Tyrion pauses. “But he isn’t the king.”

“But you said –“

“Before his death, he _was_ , and it was assumed he resumed that title when he came back, but it appears that his bastard brother, Jon Snow, is in fact King in the North.”

“A bastard?” Daenerys frowns at the dwarf. “Why on earth would he let a bastard take his title?”

“We did not get that far, Your Grace. They were rather…put out that you did not arrive with the rest of us.”

“Well, I’m here now. So call them for a meeting.”

“I sent a runner when I first saw you.” Missandei replies quickly.

“Good.” She nods. “Tell me what you know of this Jon Snow.”

“He was Ned Stark’s son, born of some southern whore during the war.”

“Ned Stark? Robert Baratheon’s Hand?”

“Yes,” Tyrion nods. “Robb Stark was – _is_ his brother. Before war broke out in Westeros, I travelled with Jon Snow to the Wall farther North of here, where he took up the Black.” At Daenerys’ confused look, he explains, “The Night’s Watch, Jorah’s father was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and Jon Snow was his steward.”

“He served under Jorah’s father?”

“Yes,” Tyrion nods again. “Last I had heard, he was named Lord Commander after Jorah’s father died. From the chatter I’ve been hearing around Winterfell, he came down from Castle Black – _er_ , the Night’s Watch – to take back his family home from the Boltons. They were the ones who had killed Robb Stark.”

“I see,” Daenerys frowns. “And they named him king?”

“As far as I know, yes. Robb Stark apparently came back to life shortly thereafter.”

“But he did not seek his old title? He allowed his bastard brother to keep it?”

“Again, My Queen, I do not know why that is, just that Jon Snow is King in the North.”

“It should be easier, no?” Daenerys asks, beginning to walk towards the fortress of Winterfell. “A bastard would be more likely to see the downfalls of a society led by the Cersei Lannister’s of the world more than a lord could.”

She seems so confident, Tyrion doesn’t wish to tell her that the Northerners have always been different.

⧞

Inside Winterfell, Jon sits before the fire in his and Robb’s chambers, holding a dagger between his index fingers. The blade isn’t very big, no larger than a foot in length, yet weighty. It has a simple metal handle which is dented from age and use, and the blade is sharp steel, kept in _very_ good condition.

It was the blade he’d taken off Ramsay Bolton before they’d taken him to the kennels, his final resting place. In the Lord’s Chamber had been a large assortment of weapons, but the dagger had been used the most – a favorite, Jon would have to bet.

He supposes he could ask Theon, but. Well. Probably not the best idea.

He tips the knife forward and then flicks out his wrist, holding the steel over the fire as the flames lick at both the blade and his hand. As expected, Jon doesn’t feel any burning, only heat. When he draws his hand and the dagger away from the fire, he notes the steel glows slightly with the hotness, but his hand is as pale as ever.

He’s roused by a knocking on the door and he sighs, securing the knife back into his belt and standing to answer. Upon opening the door, he finds Davos’ tired face looking at him. He knows the man is still angry about Melisandre’s presence at Winterfell, and Jon wishes he could appease him – but unfortunately, they may need the witch’s help after all.

“The dragon queen has arrived.” Davos tells him solemnly. “She wants to meet.”

“Well, then we best not keep her waiting.” Jon replies, grabbing his cloak off the small hook beside the door and buckling it around his shoulders. “Where is my brother?” He cringes slightly, remembering that Robb isn’t his brother anymore.

“He’s waiting for you outside the feasting hall.” Jon nods to him and they fall in step beside each other. The walk isn’t long, but the closer they get, the tenser Jon feels.

“I don’t know how to do this, Davos.” Jon says quietly, keeping his gaze forward. Davos glances at him and then mirrors his posture.

“You do,” he remarks. “You’ve convinced Wildlings not to kill us, you’ve convinced Northmen to trust Wildlings, they chose _you_ to be their king.” Davos stops, causing Jon to halt as well. The older man puts his hand firmly on Jon’s shoulder and looks him in the eye.

“You have been fighting your whole life, Jon.” Davos says gently. “Today is no different.”

“Is that meant to be encouraging?” Jon asks, though his lips twitch with a smile.

“I’m really no good at encouragement.” Davos shrugs. “But you have my support, and the support of the North. That’s all you need.”

“To face a dragon queen?”

“Well, according to your friend and your little brother, she’s partly your family.”

“Right,” Jon frowns. They’re interrupted by Robb clearing his throat from down the hall, raising a brow at them.

“Are we going to have this conversation today?” He asks cheekily. Jon huffs out a laugh and walks towards the red-haired man. As all three men turn the corner to the doors into the hall, they find Melisandre, Bran, and Sansa all waiting.

“Before we go in,” Jon says, stopping Davos who was nodding for the two other guards to open the doors. “No one breathes a word about my parentage.”

“Jon?” Robb frowns at him.

“This isn’t about blood rights or being heir to a throne. This is about securing an alliance for when the dead come. Bran has already seen the Wall fall.”

“The ravens arrived this morning,” one of the guards informs Jon.

“That means the dead will be here very soon. We have all heard the rumors about the dragon queen. If she senses a threat to her throne, there will _be_ no alliance. So until the threat of the dead is dealt with, if we survive, then we can deal with all that.”

“Agreed,” Robb nods, Sansa and Bran nodding as well. Jon looks to the red witch.

“Of course, my king.” The woman responds softly, but her eyes appear troubled. Jon ignores it and then nods for the doors to be opened.

There is no one besides the guards standing in the Hall. At one end is Podrick and Bronn, the other is Jaime and Theon. Only the essential people would be attending this meeting. Jon, Davos, Robb, and Melisandre step into the hall, leaving Sansa and Bran outside. At the opposite end of the hall are Dothraki soldiers, watching them warily with their facial markings outlining their angry features. Jon takes his seat at the center of the table across from another chair where the dragon queen will sit. Davos sits to his right while Robb sits to his left, Melisandre instead choosing to stand back a small distance and observe the whole room.

After a moment, the front doors open and Tyrion Lannister and the dark-skinned girl from the previous night enter. The girl steps off to the side and looks at Jon.

“You are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful queen of the Andals and the First Men, protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the mother of dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the unburnt, the breaker of chains.”

The woman in question is smaller than Jon had expected, wearing a dark jacket of leather and a dark red cloak, the silver cuff holding it around her shoulders in the style of dragon scales. Her hair is pulled back in intricate knots and braids, her face smooth and pale, but her eyes sharp. They glint violet in the dim lighting as her hard gaze falls upon the four people at the opposite end of the room.

Tyrion watches her enter and then turns to look at Jon, who finally rises to nod to the woman. Davos and Robb also stand. Davos looks warily at Jon and then clears his throat.

“This is Jon Sn– Stark. King in the North.”

“Stark,” Daenerys comments, stepping closer. “I had heard the bastard was ruling here.”

“He was legitimized by my own hand.” Robb informs the dragon queen. Her eyes cut to the broad-shouldered man with contempt and she raises an eyebrow.

“You give up your throne and your family name to your bastard brother?” Jon can see Tyrion wince at the petulant tone Daenerys takes with Robb.

“Jon earned both.” Is all Robb says, but Jon can see his fists clench from the corner of his eye. When no one else says anything further, Tyrion steps forward and leads Daenerys towards the head table. Her small, pale hands rest on the top of the chair as she assesses Jon. He tries not to fidget under her violet gaze.

“I apologize for my absence, my lord.” Daenerys says demurely. “It was necessary to deal with a threat in the East.” Jon opens his mouth to answer, but Davos cuts him off.

“Pardon me, but Jon is _King_ in the North, not a lord.”

Daenerys seems taken aback by the knight’s boldness. “Forgive me…?”

“Davos Seaworth, your Grace.”

“Forgive me, Ser Davos.” Daenerys says slowly. “I was taught the history of Westeros some time ago, but I understand that the last true King in the North was Torrhen Stark.”

“My brother Robb was, actually, Your Grace.” Jon corrects her.

“Well, no matter, we have much to discuss, I believe.” Daenerys says. Jon nods and they all sit. The dragon queen appears surprised for a moment that they did not wait for her to sit, before she too takes her seat, Tyrion to her right, Missandei to her left. Grey Worm stands just behind with another Dothraki soldier, eyeing Melisandre carefully.

Jon drops a roll of parchment onto the table between them. It uncurls slightly to show words like _Dragons_ and _swear fealty_.

“You sent this over a fortnight ago.” Jon comments. “I think it’s where this conversation should begin.”

“I would assume my message was straightforward.” Daenerys tells him. “I requested your hospitality, which you have given. Now that I have arrived, you are called upon to renounce your claim and bend the knee.” She smiles at him. “Just as _Torrhen_ Stark did before, because he knew an alliance between the Starks and the Targaryens would be prosperous.”

“Prosperous?” Robb queries. Violet eyes snap to the man’s face. “You mean to say that the rule between the North and your ancestors was _prosperous_? Torrhen Stark bent the knee to spare the lives of all his subjects after Aegon threatened to burn the North to the ground. He was forever known as “the King Who Knelt.”

“So, pride is what is stopping you from vowing allegiance?” Daenerys asks. “Regardless of your ancestor’s…reputation…he swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Do you know what that means?”

“I do,” Robb replies calmly. “And for many years, House Stark lived under the rule of a Targaryen, through uprisings, conquests, squabbling amongst yourselves, until finally it became too much and your father was murdered. But first, he murdered our grandfather and uncle – burned them alive, just as Aegon threatened to do centuries earlier.”

“So what I understand,” Daenerys turns back to look at Jon, who has remained silent through Robb’s exclamation. “Is you plan to break faith today?”

“Break faith?” Jon frowns at her. “There hasn’t _been_ faith with House Targaryen since my fath– since Eddard Stark took up arms in Robert’s Rebellion to overthrow your father.” Jon stumbles over his father’s name, still off-kilter about knowing Ned Stark isn’t his father.

“You are planning to judge me for the crimes of my father?” Daenerys asks.

“Why not?” Jon asks her calmly. “Are you not asking me to uphold an oath sworn by my ancestor?”

“We can make this world a better place.” She promises him. “With a Targaryen on the throne and a Stark sitting in as Warden of the North, we can build a better world than Cersei Lannister. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Stark.”

Jon looks at Davos and then at Robb, both who look to him encouragingly. Jon has never been the one to speak on behalf of anyone before. Even in the Night’s Watch, he’d given orders, but he didn’t speak for them. But Robb believed he could do it, so he would.

“I will not bend the knee.” Jon tells the white-haired woman. Daenerys blinks at him and straightens her back.

“Then why invite us in at all?” She demands. “You knew we were coming, why open the doors and speak with us?”

“Because we need your help.” Jon tells her firmly. “And you need ours.” Daenerys scoffs.

“Your help? I believe it was laid out plainly in the scroll sent to you. I have three dragons, Unsullied soldiers, and Dothraki blood riders at my side.”

“Two dragons,” Davos comments idly. The queen’s eyes cut to the older knight. “I overheard in the courtyard that you left with two dragons, but you returned with only one. I would assume…you have lost one.”

“I – “ she shifts angrily before composing herself. “It’s true. He was killed in the battle at Highgarden. Even with only two dragons, I do not need your help.”

“You believe yourself to be like Aegon, correct? Willing to do what is necessary to bring peace to Westeros?” Jon asks.

“Yes,” Daenerys nods, hoping the Northman has finally understood.

“You came with 3 dragons, like Aegon…only you also brought a Dothraki horde and an army of thousands of Unsullied soldiers. So, you knew your dragons wouldn’t be enough to grant you access to the seven kingdoms. And these Dothraki and Unsullied? They follow you?”

“They are loyal to me, yes.” Daenerys scowls.

“I had heard that you were liberating the slave cities.” Jon comments.

“I did.” She states proudly.

“Yet, you were okay with buying them when it suited you?”

“I did not buy the Unsullied.”

“No, but that was because you did not have the expenses to do so, yes? And I’ve been learning from my friend, Sam, that the Dothraki trade slaves.”

“This new world we are building would not stand for slavery.” Daenerys insists.

“So, you will be paying them a living wage?” Jon asks. “As Cersei Lannister pays her Kingsguard – or, I suppose, _Queensguard_ – soldiers? Theon,” Jon looks to the man off to the side. “Yara pays her men, correct?”

“All spoils taken by a fleet are equally shared.” Theon nods.

“I, myself, make sure my people are well-taken care of, have places to stay, have food in their bellies, and their wives and children are cared for in their absence if called upon in battle.”

“On the topic of the Dothraki,” Robb comments idly. “What did you promise them to get the Dothraki to follow you across the Narrow Sea? Was it payment, or did you offer them the chance to continue pillaging our country? Will they adapt?”

“Enough!” Daenerys says, shoving away from the table and glaring down at Jon and Robb. “This discussion is over. I am the rightful heir to the throne, and refusal to swear fealty is treason.”

“It’s only treason if you were _my_ queen.” Jon informs her. “Which you are not.”

“Let’s take a step back,” Tyrion suggests. He looks at Jon. “We are offering you a choice, Jon. A choice to join us and take back the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei. You know that she is a threat while on the throne.”

“Cersei Lannister isn’t a priority right now.”

“Then what _is_ your priority?” Tyrion asks.

“The enemy to the North.”

“As far as I can tell, _you_ are the enemy to the North.” Daenerys says coldly.

“No,” Jon shakes his head at the queen. “The dead are the enemy.”

“The dead?” Daenerys looks at him blankly and then looks at Tyrion.

“I told you, Lord Tyrion, the Wall has fallen, and the dead have crossed it. They will be here soon, and unless you want to rule over a graveyard,” Jon looks at Daenerys, “then you best be ready to fight them.”

“The army of the dead.” Tyrion looks at Jon humorously.

“You don’t know me well, my Lord, but have you ever considered me a liar? Insane?”

“Neither of those things,” Tyrion shakes his head.

“The army of the dead is real, and they’re marching on Winterfell as we speak. Did you not ask yourself why so many people had amassed here?”

“I assumed it was because winter was almost here.”

“Yes, winter is here.” Jon nods his head gravely. “And the dead come with it. _That_ is my priority – making sure my people survive to see the next summer.”

“And your pride?” Daenerys asks. “If what you say is true, then why not allow me to help _you_ with my own army.”

“You will help by putting your _own_ ambitions aside to help us win this war.”

“And if I leave you to your war? What becomes of you then?”

“I don’t know.” Jon answers truthfully. “Perhaps we all die. Perhaps not. There are three things that can kill White Walkers.” Jon stands and pulls out his sword. “Valyrian Steel,” he then pulls out a ridged black dagger, “Dragonglass,” and then nods to the large hearth, “and fire.”

“So truly, it is my dragons you want?” Daenerys demands.

“They would help, yes.”

“Only a Targaryen can lead them. If I were to leave – “

“But your dragons are not the only dragons here.”

There’s a long silence in which Daenerys looks taken aback.

“I beg pardon?”

“We have a dragon.”

“Impossible,”

“Just as yours were thought to be a myth, the ice dragons of the Long Night have come again. We’ve been caring for it, and he will be ready for battle when the dead arrive.”

“You don’t expect us to believe you.” Tyrion asks slowly.

“I expect you to see and believe,” Jon shrugs. He stands and leads them back outside into the courtyard. People working stop and look at Jon standing beside the dragon queen. Jon steps into the center of the court and pulls a small chain from around his neck. At the end of it sits a pipe-shaped whistle, so high-pitched that no one in the courtyard can hear it.

What follows is a long moment of silence broken by a roar echoes across the sky and the body of a white dragon appears above their heads. As it circles high up in the air, Daenerys’ jaw drops. _It should be impossible_ , she thinks. The Targaryens had dragons, but no one else.

Jon turns back and looks the dragon queen directly in the eye.

“I am Jon of House Stark, King in the North. I have Northern soldiers, a direwolf, and a dragon. I offer you the chance to put aside your conquest and join us in the fight against the dead. But I will not bend the knee to gain your support.”

“You have made a mistake here today, Jon Stark.” Daenerys tells him, stepping towards him so that only they may hear. “The dead will come here first, enjoy dealing with them. I will deal with whatever is left of you.”

She turns and marches towards the gates of Winterfell, her guards and Missandei rushing to follow. As Tyrion moves past Jon, he sighs.

“You should have just bent the fucking knee.”

“I might have done,” Jon admits, looking down at the dwarf. “But my family is here, looking to me. I will not betray them.”

“Then you have doomed them all.” Tyrion tells him regrettably. The dwarf then follows after the dragon queen and Jon looks back at Robb, who walks towards him and puts a hand tightly on his shoulder.

“You did the right thing.” He tells Jon.

“Then why do I feel like I’ve made a huge mistake?”

“Because being a king is about making the tough decisions. Hardest of all: putting your people before your own fears.”

“We could have used her army, Robb.” Jon says urgently.

“She would never have helped us, Jon.” Robb shakes his head. “Her cause is not with us; her cause is with Cersei Lannister. She would never commit to fighting with us if it could mean Cersei marching from King’s Landing and taking ground from her.”

“And if by some miracle we survive? We won’t have enough resources to fight her, Robb.”

“We’ll worry about that _when_ we defeat the dead.” Robb tells him seriously. “Now, we need to begin assembling a vanguard and watch parties.”

“Yeah,” Jon nods. He wants nothing more than to rest his head for a moment on Robb’s shoulder, allow himself to take comfort in Robb’s presence for whatever amount of time remains, but they are standing in a courtyard of curious onlookers.

Robb’s gaze meets Jon’s as if knowing what he is thinking. Robb gently moves the hand on Jon’s shoulder so that his thumb grazes the king’s neck.

“You did well, Jon.” Robb tells him earnestly. “Now, we fight.”

Jon sighs and then nods, moving to follow Robb to the armory, mumbling, “Winter is here.”

 


	17. End Times: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters to go, you guys!

 

Arrival at Winterfell isn’t a grand event. The entire fortress is surrounded by hundreds of tents of different lords who had come for the war. Gendry recognizes a few sigils, but many are unfamiliar to him. Beric points some out to him, explaining which families they belong to and how he knows certain people from each.

At this point, Gendry is bored of Beric’s preaching, annoyed at Thoros’ gaiety, and has grown more understanding of why the Hound always looks as if he wants to hang himself. Gendry is glad to have arrived at Winterfell and to hopefully be through with them soon enough.

They enter through the front gates on horseback and a few people seem to recognize the Hound. They dismount, and Gendry is shocked to see Ser Davos walking towards him.

“Ser Davos!”

“Gendry,” the older knight nods to him with a small smile. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you might still be rowing.”

“Gave up rowing a few years back. Turns out it wasn’t really for me.” Gendry jokes.

“And you return with the Hound?”

“They sort of found me in the woods.” Gendry sighs. “Davos, this is –“

“Beric Dondaarion.”

The Red Witch appears like an illusion in her shimmering red dress, gliding towards them. Gendry’s rage rises within him at the sight of her, and Davos settles a hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady him.

“And Thoros,” the woman greets the two men.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, My Lady.” Beric replies to her graciously. The woman tilts her head in acknowledgement before her dark eyes find Gendry. He can see the moment it registers in her head who he is as she steps closer to him.

“The Baratheon bastard,” she comments softly, looking him over. “It has been a long time.”

“No thanks to you,” Gendry scowls at her.

“A necessity,” the woman tells him. “But here we all are.”

“Yes, here we all are.” Thoros cuts in. “I expect for the same reasons.”

“The Night King is coming,” the priestess nods to the two men. The Hound is watching it all impassively.

“And someone needs to end this.”

“Yes, and the One resides here already.” The woman replies. “The Prince Who Was Promised.”

“Stannis is dead, My Lady.” Beric frowns at her. “Who are you claiming is your Prince now?”

“Jon Snow has proven himself to be the rightful owner of that title.”

“Has he?”

“He has awoken a dragon from stone, Thoros.” The woman says. “A beast of the ice, a dragon with translucent scales and the bluest eyes. Larger than even the Targaryen girl’s beasts.”

“Great power requires great sacrifice.” Beric claims. “What of the reforging of the weapon? That much at least the Lord of Light is clear on. Azor Ahai will bring back the weapon made by his wife’s death.”

“What of his own death?” The priestess asks, staring at the two men of the Faith. “He was resurrected, as you have been, Beric. He _is_ the Prince Who Was Promised.”

“For your sake, I hope you are right.” Beric comments, remounting his horse expertly. After a moment, Thoros follows. “But we will be riding ahead, to meet what fates we may.”

“You fucks can go on your own.” The Hound remarks. “I’ll fight with an army that might stand a chance.”

“Oh, Clegane.” Thoros chuckles. “So little faith.”

“The Lord of Light has plans for you, Clegane.” Beric tells him, turning his steed around. “May we meet again.”

“I hope not, you fucker.” The Hound mumbles as both men ride back out of the fortress, leaving the Hound and Gendry behind with Davos and the Red Priestess.

“I shall leave you to it, Ser Davos.” Melisandre murmurs idly, her gaze piercing Gendry once more. “We shall see each other again, Gendry.” She comments before striding away.

“I’ve had about enough of the Lord of Light.” The Hound bites out before looking at Davos. “You got any food?”

⧞

 

Asha and the rest of her fleet arrive at midday. Theon appears more at ease with his sister at his side; one hardly noticed the tension in Theon’s body until it was gone.

She explains that there was a mutiny when they made landfall; over a hundred men died in the ensuing chaos. By the time they had managed to pull themselves back together, Daenerys had already landed her own fleet and Asha was forced to track a course that would not intersect with the dragon queen for fear of losing more men to the girl’s wrath.

With the Wall having fallen, the men in the camps surrounding Winterfell have been on high alert. Watches are set day and night, new men patrolling the area for any sign of worsening storms. The snow is piled high and it’s a job in itself to keep it pushed aside into large piles. Jon remembers the last winter when he was a boy, how he and Robb used to play around in the snow without care. He misses those days when things were much simpler.

The dreams that Jon had suffered no longer trouble him, but the weariness hasn’t lessened. His late-night discussions with Melisandre about the dreams have earned him no easy answers. The priestess’ best guess was that the terror and exhaustion are what allowed him to feel the burn of dragon’s blood. Jon isn’t sure how much he believes her, but it isn’t as crazy as it might once have sounded. Jon has long-since given up on believing anything to be impossible.

There has been no word of Arya in the Iron Islands, and that has Jon more than worried. Theon says it is unlike Euron to boast of his conquest, and Asha appears dissatisfied with her uncle’s lack of taunting. Robb assures him that once the war is done, they will find a way to the islands, but with winter in full-tilt, it seems unlikely.

So far, the count of fighting men and women is around fifteen thousand. With so many dead from the previous fighting, there are too many of them either too old or too young to fight. The younger children, some aged only nine or ten, are learning basic skills with smaller swords that are being forged daily, but Jon hates the thought of sending children into the fray. They don’t have enough fighters, and everyone knows it.

Samwell is upset because they had failed to mine the dragon glass at Dragonstone because of Daenerys. His stress only serves to make Jon more anxious, and Robb is close to snapping at the both of them to stop being such miserable bastards.

Robb has spent the last three nights going over battle plans with all of the commanding men in their vassals’ infantries. Commanding them all is the closest Robb has felt to his old self since his death.

Finally, almost a fortnight after Bran had seen the Wall fall, he informs them that the Night King and his army will arrive the next day. There is no more time to prepare for this war, and so the men, women, and children all talk in hushed whispers if they talk at all. A deep chill settles over Winterfell, a creeping feeling of unease biting into the fears of each of them until they are terrified of the coming day.

Jon is no better, pacing before the fire as he is wont to do. Robb watches him idly from his position on the bed, tunic untied to reveal his broad chest and red curls, his breeches pushed up his calves. Ghost lays across his lap and Robb grips onto his white fur for comfort.

They’re quiet, tense, but neither is particularly _afraid_. They’ve both died, been resurrected, been _king_. They understand one another better than anyone else, and Robb knows that Jon needs time to think just as Jon knows Robb is looking for distraction.

Hoping to provide it, Jon finally huffs and pulls his tunic over his head, sending his dark curls into disarray as the band holding them back falls loose. He pushes at Ghost until the wolf grumbles and jumps off the bed. Jon slides into the place between Robb’s legs Ghost had vacated. Robb smiles gently and cards his fingers through Jon’s hair.

“Tell me honestly,” Jon says. “Do we stand a chance, do you think?”

“Jon, you’re just as much a strategist as I am –“

“I’m not, and we both know it. Besides, I lost the war with Ramsay until Sansa showed up with the Knights of the Vale. I’m not optimistic about my strategies when it comes to battle.”

“I think we have done all we can.” Robb tells him truthfully. “We’ve got all the men and women who are willing to fight at our sides, and we’ve got weapons forged of Valyrian Steel. We’ve somehow acquired a _dragon_.” Robb huffs out an incredulous laugh – it’s still so strange to think there was a dragon sleeping a mile from Winterfell’s gates.

“Past that,” Robb continues, “I don’t know if we can win.”

“Yeah,” Jon sighs, then twists in his _cousin’s_ lap and kisses him fiercely. Robb smiles into the kiss and gentles it, his hands sliding into Jon’s hair to take control and tracing his tongue along Jon’s lower lip.

“I love you,” he tells the boy in his lap.

“And I, you,” Jon tells him as he drags his lips along Robb’s jaw. Robb’s hands slide to cup Jon’s face and he leans back a little to look him in the eyes.

“I want to ask you something.”

“What?” Jon frowns at him. Robb’s cheeks have gone a bit pink, though not from the heat of the room. He hesitates before dropping one of his hands to link fingers with Jon.

“I’ve been thinking about it since Bran got home, since he told us…told us about you.” Jon ducks his head sadly, but Robb grips his chin to force his gaze back up. “I was saddened, just as you were, Jon. But I was also…relieved.”

“Relieved?” Jon blinks at his words.

“I loved being your brother, being your _family_ , but as my cousin…it makes it so much easier to ask you.”

“To ask me what?”

“Marry me,” Robb says shyly. Jon sucks in a sharp breath as he looks at his cousin’s face in shock.

“Robb,” Jon whispers shakily. “What are you – we _can’t_ –“

“As brothers, no.” Robb shakes his head. “Despite who your father was, we are not Targaryens, or Lannisters. But as cousins? The gods would not frown upon a marriage.”

“We are both _men_ , Robb.”

“Not exactly something the Old Gods find fault with.” Robb smiles at him, though it looks less confident. “I mean…you don’t have to. It was just a –“

“Of _course_ I want to marry you, Robb!” Jon laughs in shock and cups Robb’s cheeks. “I’ve wanted to marry you since I was fifteen.”

“Then it’s settled.” Robb grins at him, pulling him forward and kissing him breathless. When they pull apart again, Robb reaches around Jon to grab something from the floor. It’s his cloak, one Sansa had made for him with delicate wolf’s fur and leather, the Stark sigil crafted with iron to hook together in the front. A gorgeous piece to match the Lord of Winterfell.

Robb tugs the cloak around Jon’s shoulders and then grips both of Jon’s hands between his.

“Aren’t we supposed to do this before the weirwood tree?” Jon asks.

“I think they’ll be all right if we stay here.” Robb laughs. “Now, Jon of the Houses Stark and Targaryen, do you take this man to be your husband?”

Jon’s smiles goes from excited to soft, looking down at the boy in his bed. “I take this man.” He says, squeezing his hand. “And do you, Robb of House Stark, take this man to be your husband?”

“I take this man.” Robb grins and then lunges for him, spinning them on the bed and pinning Jon below him, the cloak having slipped from his shoulders at the edge of the bed. Robb attacks his jaw and neck, a leg sliding between Jon’s thighs. A groan escapes his throat as his fingers entwine with red curls.

“Make love to me, _husband_ ,” Jon laughs breathlessly and Robb leans back a bit, a wolf-like grin on his face.

“As you wish, _husband_.”

They’ve done this a hundred times, but it feels so much more important for both of them as Robb slips a first, oil-slick finger into Jon’s heat and gently strokes his cock with his other hand. One of Jon’s hands is curled into Robb’s hair while the other clenches the bedsheet beneath them. Robb slowly adds a second finger and Jon makes a small whimper which Robb leans up to kiss away. Jon sighs into his mouth and Robb carefully stretches him.

Once he manages a third finger, Jon is panting harshly against Robb’s ear. “Please,” he gasps. “Please, Robb –“

“Shh, I got you,” Robb tells him softly before removing his fingers and oiling his cock liberally. Jon whines as Robb releases him to sit back on his heels and then lines himself up with Jon’s entrance.

Jon bites his lower lip hard as Robb slides into his heat, a groan escaping his own lips as he gets Jon fully seated on his cock. Jon flings both arms around Robb’s shoulders and hangs on tight as Robb gently eases out of his cousin’s body before sliding back in. Jon groans and lets his head fall back, exposing his pale neck to Robb’s lips.

Robb carefully sets a pace that he can tell hits that spot inside Jon every time, his breaths acting as if they’ve been punched from him. One of Jon’s hands grabs ahold of Robb’s hair harshly, but it only serves to spur Robb on as he starts thrusting deeply into his cousin’s – his _husbands_ – beautiful body and Jon comes across both of their stomachs with a choked sound. Robb leans forward and kisses him deeply as he feels himself release inside Jon’s tight heat.

When they both come down, they’re breathing harshly and Robb makes a halfhearted attempt to uss Jon’s discarded tunic to wipe them both off. Jon sighs deeply and when Robb looks over at him, he’s already passed out. Robb kisses him on the forehead fondly and lays against the pillows for a moment, still slightly lazy from sex, his eyes not leaving his _husband_ ’ _s_ sleeping face.

⧞

Robb finds he can’t sleep and so, quietly, he escapes the confines of their chambers in his cloak and boots, feeling excited about his life with Jon, before he remembers it could all be over tomorrow.

“The Young Wolf,” Jaime Lannister greets him as he steps out into the quiet courtyard. Robb turns to see the knight leaning against one of the sheep-stalls, his gaze cast upwards to the clear night sky.

“Kingslayer,” Robb murmurs, though for the first time, it isn’t said with contempt. “It is a bit cold for a southern knight to be out, is it not?”

“I find it quite nice, actually.” Jaime replies, finally looking over at the Stark boy. How far they had both come, one much more a man than a boy, and the other missing a hand but seeming more comfortable in his skin than before. “What is it that has our Young Wolf scampering about in the middle of the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Robb shrugs, mirroring the man’s pose at against the stall. “I almost wish the Night King would come so that we might at least get this over with.”

“I believe most of the other men would agree with you.” Jaime chuckles softly, his breath twisting around them before being carried away by the wind. They fall into silence for a short while before Jaime says, “For a long time, I had thought they called you the Young Wolf because you were just that, a young boy at war.”

Robb raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

“Then I met my father on the battlefield and I realized that it wasn’t a moniker, and it wasn’t said in jest. My father was actually _scared_ of what you were capable of. The entire south was terrified of you. You destroyed my father on the field at every turn, you took the Riverlands; people were certain you could turn yourself into a wolf at times.”

“They weren’t wrong.” Robb shakes his head. Jaime’s eyes cut to the younger man’s face, but he doesn’t comment. He’s learned that questioning the strange tales of Northmen usually ended in southern men looking like fools for their lack of faith.

“You wouldn’t know this, but it took a lot to turn the Freys in our favor. Yes, Walder Frey hated your mother’s father, but Walder Frey was not the fool many took him for. He was scared to cross you, as was Lord Bolton. We had to convince them it could be done if we did it together; although, I hope you know, I never knew what was planned. I only found out after I returned home what had become of you and your family.”

“Your father played the game well.” Robb comments.

“He always did,” Jaime agrees. “But you know what I think scared him the most? Scared _everyone_ the most?”

“What’s that?” Robb finally turns his focus solely to the southern knight. Jaime returns his gaze solemnly.

“You never claimed to have a birthright to the throne; you didn’t declare yourself king like Stannis or Renly, you didn’t take over the throne like Joffrey. The Northmen _named_ you their king, and they trusted you to lead them in battle. I think it scared the others shitless, because here was a boy with an entire army willingly fighting for him, not because they were being paid or out of a moral duty, but because they genuinely believed in you.”

“I failed them.” Robb sighs.

“You didn’t,” Jaime shakes his head. “You were betrayed in a fashion unbecoming for a king. Even my father thought so. He knew the only way to rid himself of you was to kill you at your most vulnerable. It didn’t earn him a favorable title, really. I think many despised my father most for it, actually.” He smiles. “And even still, he could not keep the Young Wolf in the ground for long.”

Robb laughs.

“It’s why I’m baffled that you did not take back that title when you were resurrected. I’ve heard your brother is amazingly deadly in a battle, but ruling seems less his style.”

“He’s the Prince Who Was Promised.”

“So I’ve heard,” Jaime smirks. “And I stand by my decision to swear him my sword, but I’m curious; it was you, was it not, who told him how to handle the Dragon Queen?”

“It was,” Robb smiles. “The things I’d heard of her, and the things Jon and Sansa have told me, I wouldn’t trust her in a battle to help us. Jon agreed, but he’s still not used to speaking diplomatically. I don’t blame him; I think leading the Night’s Watch must have been quite a bit easier when no one else needed their ass kissed.”

“Too right you are,” Jaime nods. “He’s doing well, and you by his side is helping, I hear. That’s why you were brought back, correct?”

“Yes,” Robb nods and then adds, “amongst other things.”

“What sorts of things?” Jaime asks, but his smile makes it clear he already knows the answer. Robb doesn’t reply but offers a small smile of his own. After a moment, they go back to looking out at the sky above them in silence.

⧞

 

It’s the air that tells them before anything else. The already frozen atmosphere seems to get impossibly colder; each puff of breath seems to freeze upon hitting the air before dissipating. The chill runs deep within each man as he stands at attention around the walls of Winterfell.

Jon steps to the edge of the wall above the gates of Winterfell to look out at the mass of men watching him with looks of fear and apprehension. Jon knows he’s meant to say something, but he isn’t sure if any words will be able to prepare these men for what they’re about to see. His dark eyes look out at the edge of the horizon where he knows, behind the low-hanging clouds and the dark forest, lays an army of dead men come to kill them all.

“Men,” Jon says, and any whispers that may have been spoken below him in the crowd are silenced. Each man seems to hold his breath for Jon’s words to be heard amongst the eerie quiet that grips Winterfell.

“I won’t ply you with empty platitudes.” Jon tells them honestly. “I’m not going to tell you that we will make it through, because I know that no amount of lying will convince you. The truth is, many of us are going to die today. Too many, because any death on this field will be one too many in this war.

“Your friends will die today. Your brothers, fathers, uncles, cousins will die today. There is a very real possibility that _you_ will die today. I cannot promise you that you will not. What I can promise you is this: when that army comes through those trees, I will be standing beside you. There will not be one moment where I will think of abandoning you. And if for a moment, you imagine yourself running away, remember why you came to fight. Remember that your wives, mothers, sisters, and children might have a future for you being here today.

“The men you will meet on the battlefield today are like none you’ve ever met. They do not fear death as you or I might; they’re already dead. They are hard to kill and troubling to behold. What I am asking you all to do is no easy task: I am asking you to face this enemy. I am asking you to lay down your life against this enemy if need be. I am asking you to fight until you hit the ground and feel you cannot get back up. I am asking you to get back up anyways.

“We could all be dead by the end of this battle. We could fail today, and if we do, that means the death of everyone in Westeros. And that is where our strength lies. The enemy we face today is not fighting for honor or glory. They are not fighting for a throne or for riches. They are not fighting for anything; _we_ fight for our homes and our families.

“By the Old Gods and the New, I promise you that I will not leave this field until we’ve all fallen, or we’ve won this battle.”

The silence continues long after Jon has finished speaking, and he feels a hand rest heavily on his shoulder. He turns his head to see Robb looking at him solemnly, bowing his head once before stepping back into his place. It’s all the time they have, because as Robb steps back, the first soldier rides out of the trees.

Jaime Lannister and Bronn sit astride their horses at the head of the army. Theon stands close to Jon at the center of the wall, overseeing the archers flanking the stone fortress. Davos, standing close to Robb, gives Jon an inquiring look and Jon nods once. Davos turns and makes his way down into the courtyard to see to the men closer to the back of the army.

As the rider gets closer and no other bodies follow, Jon frowns out at the lone figure. As he gets nearer, Jon suddenly takes a startled step back in shock.

“Uncle Benjen?” Jon says aloud. Robb frowns and squints his eyes before stepping up to the edge of the wall.

“Hold!” He shouts at the men below. He sees Jaime throw a confused look back at him, but the knight raises his hand to stop the army. The man atop the horse slows as he approaches, but it is undoubtedly Benjen Stark.

Robb and Jon make their way quickly down to the ground and push to the front of the line to see Benjen seated on his horse, waiting.

“Uncle Benjen!” Jon gasps as he walks towards his uncle. His skin is pale white – dead-looking – but his eyes don’t contain the icy blue Jon expects. They warm upon sight of both Jon and Robb and Benjen slowly dismounts.

“Jon,” Benjen breathes, wrapping the boy in his arms. “It’s good to see you.” He looks over Jon’s shoulder as he lets him go and smiles. “And Robb, my boy,” he pulls the red head into a hug as well.

“Last we heard, you were gone beyond the Wall and lost.” Robb breathes out.

“We were attacked by them,” Benjen sighs before frowning. “Did Bran not come back?”

“He did,” Jon tells him.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No,”

“To be fair,” Robb cuts in, “He had quite a lot to tell us.”

“Did you know?” Jon asks his uncle forcefully.

“Did I know what?” Benjen asks.

“That Jon isn’t my father’s son.” Robb clarifies. Benjen’s frown deepens as he looks between them.

“I don’t understand. Of _course_ Jon is Ned’s son. What are you talking about? He looks more like a Stark than –“

“He _is_ a Stark.” Robb says. “Just not my father’s son.”

“Lyanna was my mother.” Jon tells him.

“I didn’t know.” Benjen tells them earnestly. His hard eyes fall on Jon as he takes in this new information. “After this battle, we will discuss this.”

“Of course,” Jon nods. “Do you know how far they are?”

“Only a few miles back from me.” Benjen warns them. “I only just managed to out-run them.”

They bring Benjen along with them, ignoring the curious and confused looks over the other soldiers. There’s not enough time to explain any of it to them; they have to be ready to fight.

Jon and Robb take their places back on the wall as Benjen remains below with the armies.

It begins quietly, then all at once.

The soldiers of the dead begin pouring out of the trees in silence, all intent on the army before them. Jon’s senses dim until he can’t hear Jaime Lannister calling the men to position, he can’t hear Robb or Theon beside him. All of his focus comes to the dead men that slowly encircle them.

Down in the field, Jaime’s horse charges into the fray of dead men with a chorus of soldiers following behind. His sword cuts at the skeletons beneath him, some crumbling to piles and others continuing as if untouched.

These men, up close, are terrifying. Blue eyes filled with an emptiness, their movements stiff and clumsy, but their strength is in that they continue walking no matter what may be in their path.

Around them, men are dropping to the ground, choking on their own blood. Jaime takes a swing at one at the same time another dead man shoves a spear into his horse. The horse collapses and brings Jaime to the ground. He’s instantly surrounded by the enemy, all striking down on him with their swords. He barely has time to get his shield above him.

Suddenly, Bronn comes charging over atop his own horse, knocking the dead men aside. He reaches down and hauls Jaime back to his feet before taking off again to continue fighting. Jaime turns and continues his progress on foot, every few seconds having to fend off yet another skeletal being.

Atop the wall, Theon’s eyes assess the open areas that will end with the least of their own men dying.

“Nock!” The sound of wood hitting wood and then the _creak_ of a drawn string. “Pull,” Theon lets out a breath as he sees the target in his head. “Loose!”

Robb draws his sword and shares a look with Jon: _I love you_ , it says.

Robb leaps from the wall into the piles of snow and then throws himself sword-first into the mass of fighting men. Jon watches him move before his eyes are drawn back to the icy figure seated atop a dead horse at the edge of the tree line.

The last time he had looked at this man, he had raised an entire village of Wildlings from the dead. Jon vows not to let this happen to the men in his own army.

-

Brienne finds herself back-to-back with Howland Reed, both fending off the creatures that, no matter how many they felled, seem to keep coming. As Brienne takes out one with a sword through its skull, Howland slashes a skeleton in half. Off to Brienne’s left, Podrick is doing an amicable job of fending off a horde of wights.

Suddenly, a feral-looking beast with peeling flesh lunges at him.

“Podrick!” She shrieks, but in a split moment a man leaps between Pod and the wight and ends up with a dead man’s spear through his chest.

It’s Bronn.

Pod catches the older man before he hits the snowy ground.

“Why am I always saving your sorry arse?” Bronn wheezes, the blood pooling down his chest and collecting in the white snow.

“ _Gods_ , _Bronn_ , I don’t – I can’t – how –“ Pod tries to quell the bleeding to no avail. The spear has done its job.

“Had to keep your magic cock safe.” Bronn grins, his teeth stained with his own blood. Pod feels the man start to convulse and holds him tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” Pod whispers, feeling tears collect in his eyes as Bronn starts choking.

“Don’t – just – finish this, yeah?” He gets out and Pod nods jerkily. Bronn takes in a huge gasp of air, another, and then falls silent.

-

Robb comes face-to-face with what he assumes, from Jon’s tales, is one of the Night King’s lieutenants. The man has a long, white beard and knotted white hair. His face looks a thousand years old, and his eyes are a vicious blue. His sword looks like it’s made of ice, and Robb doesn’t hesitate to block the blow with his own sword. The Valyrian steel holds against it, and Robb begins using the sword to shove the man back.

The man is taller than Robb, but the Stark boy is broader; he uses that to his advantage in holding the man off. The lieutenant suddenly ducks down and around a blow Robb had aimed for his shoulder and nearly impales him when Howland Reed slides between them and forces the White Walker back away from Robb.

Robb doesn’t wait to see how that ends, because suddenly a cavalry charges in from the western side holding Tyrell banners. Robb allows himself a moment of shock at the display of this glorious cavalry riding straight into the battleground and beginning to hack desperately at the dead men.

A large roar echoes across the sky and all of the men, alive and dead, turn to see the huge, white beast descend from the sky and blaze a line of blue flames across a line of dead soldiers. It roars and rears up before doing the same thing over and over, always far from any soldiers belonging to the side of the living. Jon and Theon had trained it well.

-

Brienne stands back-to-back with Jaime now, fending off the beasts, until one of the lieutenants steps up before her and swings his horrible, icy spear at her. She barely blocks it and falls to the snow. The creature raises its arms above its head and moves to crash the spear down when suddenly Jaime is plunging his sword into its belly. The thing shrieks before exploding into ice. Jaime spares her a single glance before getting back to the battle. Brienne takes a deep breath and gets back to her feet once more.

-

Benjen takes a dead man’s hatchet to the head and collapses into the arms of Howland Reed, his brother’s oldest friend.

“Leave me,” Benjen rasps at him, the blood flowing freely from his cracked head. “I’m finished.”

“May we meet again, Benjen.” Howland tells him earnestly before doing as Benjen said. Benjen gets once last look at Robb fighting amongst the dead men before he closes his eyes and doesn’t get back up.

-

Jon has made it down into the fray, and he sees too many of his own men already dead. It sends him into a tailspin of fear as he starts swiping left and right at the skeletal beings, not really paying attention. He cuts through them swiftly and feels Tormund at his side in an instant. They’ve been here before.

At a distance, Jon makes eye contact with the Night King, seated atop his dead horse.

“Go!” Tormund urges him and Jon nods once before quickly cutting down the men in his way as he makes his way to the Night King. The dead men just seem to keep coming, and the longer it goes on, the angrier Jon gets. He feels the rage building in himself and realizes he isn’t just drawing from the current battle, but all of the anger he’d felt and the guilt and the anguish from his dreams, he centers it as he marches towards the one man who had done all of this.

⧞

 

The battle rages for hours, until all of the fields outside of Winterfell’s gates are littered with men and skeletons alike. Robb is sweating and dirty as he angrily rips through the enemy. He tries to find Jon, but he can’t see much past the streams of dead men that are finally starting to dwindle. But there are still so many to fight, dead men who do not grow weary, while the living are falling from exhaustion and men are giving up hope.

Jon takes down one of the few remaining lieutenants and is finally face-to-face with the Night King. The creation of the Children to defend the mystical from the First Men; now the enemy of all living creatures. The figure carefully dismounts and pulls out a sword. Jon raises his own sword, chest heaving from fatigue and anger, and he lunges for the man.

They’re evenly matched where only a few enemies Jon has met before were. The Night King barely seems to be phased by keeping up with Jon as they clash again and again. Jon isn’t sure how long this can go on before suddenly the Night King rears back and slams his foot into Jon’s chest. Longclaw flies from his grip and he hits the snow with a gasp. There’s a sharp ringing in his ears that makes his jaw ache and when Jon finally gains enough self-awareness, he looks up into the blue eyes of the King.

Jon panics; his sword is gone, he’s on his back, he has no one near him who can help. As the Night King raises the ice spear above his head, Jon reaches shakily for the dagger at his hip. It isn’t Valyrian steel – it isn’t anything, really – but Jon has no other options. At the same time the Night King’s spear descends to Jon’s chest, he rolls to avoid the glass-like blade and shoves the dagger into the Night King’s leg.

The man freezes, stares incredulously down at his leg, and then his eyes peer down at Jon as his frozen skin slowly begins to crack from the point of impact. The dagger, still lodged into the Night King’s leg, rattles as the icy skin shatters, exploding into fine pieces of glass, and suddenly the entire battlefield falls quiet as every wight falls into nothing more than ash and bone.

Jon struggles to pull breath into his lungs as he shakily grabs for the dagger that lies in the midst of the shattered Night King. He’s covered in thin cuts that are beginning to bleed from the impact of the ice when it exploded, but Jon can do nothing but stare at the dagger.

“Jon!”

Robb is suddenly at his side, clutching at him tightly.

“Jon,” he breathes, sounding amazed and triumphant. “You did it! You _fucking_ did it.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Jon whispers, not taking his eyes off the small blade that had caused such a gigantic victory.

“What is it?” Robb asks, his frown deepening as he takes in the way his brother appears frozen on the ground. Many of the other fighting men are beginning to come closer as they congratulate each other and start celebrating.

“This blade…it shouldn’t have done that. It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t Valyrian steel.”

“It does,”

Both Jon and Robb look up as the crowd that has gathered around them parts slightly for the Red Woman to step through and kneel in front of Jon.

“You are the Prince Who Was Promised, Azor Ahai reborn.”

“But the blade –“

“Where did you gain this knife, Jon Snow?”

“It belonged to Ramsay Bolton.”

“And it belonged to his father before him.” She looks meaningfully at Jon before looking straight at Robb. “The same dagger he used to kill Robb Stark at the Red Wedding.”

And suddenly, it starts to fall together. High Valyrian is a language that doesn’t have gendered words, and the legend of Azor Ahai has changed much over the centuries. The biggest piece was about the blade he tempered by plunging it into the heart of his wife, Nissa Nissa. It may not have been a _wife_ after all. The blade Roose Bolton pierced Robb’s heart with all those years ago was the same blade now made a weapon of light by Jon’s hand.

“You –“ Robb shakes his head and then grins madly at Jon. He reaches over and grips both of his cousin’s – his _husband’s_ – hands. “All of the prophecies…were about _me and you_.” He sounds so awed, so amazed at the thought, and Jon finds his smile contagious.

The winds and snow have died down a little, but despite the Night King’s death, winter remains in the North. There are so many choices that still have to be made, so many plans still needing to be drawn up, but Jon, bleeding and tired, ignores it all for a moment and leans forward to kiss his husband.


	18. End Times: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a long wait. I was without a computer for a month and then unfortunately got trapped in the fiery hell of finals at university. I hope it is at least a little bit worth the wait.

 

Of course, kissing his _secret_ husband, who most people believed to be his brother until recently and who is now known as his cousin, comes as a bit of a shock to the Northerners who had gathered around them after the last wights had fallen.

Jon realizes this as soon as he breaks the rather desperate kiss and looks up at the stares they’re receiving from everyone else. Jon clears his throat while Robb looks at him with a small smirk.

“Right,” Jon mutters, groaning as he slowly staggers to his feet. He helps Robb up and turns to face the silent, shocked crowd. “Would it be all right if we waited to address this until we’ve seen to the wounded?”

After a brief moment of eerie quiet, a booming laugh sounds from the back of the group. The crowd parts slightly to look at Tormund, hand on his belly as he throws his head back with laughter. After a moment, a few other men begin laughing as well, and soon everyone is at least slightly chuckling around aching wounds and tired muscles. In the laughter is also pain and mourning, as they see too many of their fallen brothers amongst the dead on the bloody, snow-covered field outside Winterfell’s walls.

“I think that can be arranged,” Jaime Lannister murmurs as he steps up beside him. His face is grim, a wound on his forehead bleeding sluggishly down the side of his pale face.

All the men begin grabbing the bodies of the dead to bring back for a proper burial. Jon makes to inform them that the bodies have to be burned before he catches himself; the Night King is dead, he no longer has to worry about the dead rising again.

There are unfortunately many familiar faces amongst the deceased. Bronn, Jaime’s friend, is carried by a grim Podrick and a filthy Brienne of Tarth. Uncle Benjen, only recently returned to them, is gone for good. Howland Reed, their father’s oldest friend, an honorable man who had helped save Jon’s life as an infant.

In the midst of the chaos, they find Loras Tyrell struggling to inhale in the bitter cold, clutching at his stomach where his intestines are trying to escape. Jon leans over him and puts his gloved hand over Loras’. Robb kneels at his other side and looks around for someone to help. A few braver women from Winterfell have come to aid in recovering the wounded, but none looks their way.

“D-don’t.” Loras bites out through gritted teeth. “N-nothing they c-can d-d-do.”

“Loras –“

“It’s o-okay.” Loras smiles slightly, relaxing a bit into the snow and looking up at Jon earnestly. His teeth are stained red with his own blood, but the agony seems to melt from his face for a moment. “I shall f-finally see Renly again.” A tear slides down his face into his hair, mixing with the blood collecting in his ears. “It’s b-been so l-long.” He shutters and gasps before relaxing fully, his eyes losing their focus as he looks up at the sky. His grip on his stomach loosens, allowing the slimy organs to ooze from him into the snow.

“Farewell, Ser Loras.” Jon murmurs, brushing a hand over his face to close the man’s eyes before he meets Robb’s face.

“We need to tell his sister.” Robb tells him gently. Jon nods, but can’t seem to find the strength to get up. He isn’t sure what it is about seeing Loras there that hits him so hard; perhaps it is the way his curls remain so bright despite his death, or the way he looks almost serene and beautiful despite his wounds. Whatever it is, Jon finds himself tucking his chin against his chest and trying to breathe through the panic and despair that overtakes him.

“Hey,” Robb says quickly, lurching into motion to settle beside Jon, his arm wrapping protectively around Jon’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Jon. It’s okay.”

But, of course, things never stay that way.

They’ve barely managed to get the wounded onto wooden pallets to return to Winterfell when the cry of a dragon echoes overhead. All heads in the field snap up to stare as the dark beast screeches and lands with a solid _crack_ against the earth. Atop its back sits Daenerys, her hair braided around her head like a makeshift helmet, her eyes sharp as she slides gracefully from its back. A moment later, the other dragon descends from the clouds to land beside its sibling.

Robb helps Jon stand and they both face her resolutely, fingers interlocked tightly as they watch her take in the scene.

“Lord Snow,” she remarks curtly, looking at the carnage of skeletal beings and Northmen. Jon doesn’t miss the way she refuses to use his proper title, nor the way Robb flinches when she says Snow rather than Stark. “I see my dragons were not needed after all.”

“No, they were not.” Jon replies lowly. The woman raises a dark brow at him as she takes a few steps closer. Her boots crunch through the snow softly as she meets his gaze.

“And as promised, I shall deal with the rest of you.”

Jon sighs, and steps towards her. Before he can speak, she raises a small hand and stops him.

“Not today, however. Tonight, you shall rest and gather your strength. You have until midday tomorrow to bend the knee to me.”

“I believe we both know that is not something I plan to do.” Jon informs her. Her eyes glint dangerously in the grey light of the frozen day.

“Then when the sun reaches its highest point, my armies will slaughter you and take what is rightfully mine.”

She doesn’t wait for him to reply before she turns and makes her way back to her dragons. She runs a hand along the nose of one before climbing atop the other. As soon as she’s settled, both launch themselves into the air at a frightening speed and disappear over the tree line to the east.

∞

The moon is full that night, but half-hidden behind dark clouds. A lone figure atop a horse strides through the open gates carrying a white banner. The courtyard is empty, and the only sound is of the horse’s hooves and the steady breaths coming from beneath the hood of the cloak around the rider’s shoulders. The rider slips from the saddle just as someone emerges from behind the castle doors. They spy the horseman and cautiously approach.

“And who might you be?” The courtesan asks hesitantly, finding only a little solace in the sight of the white banner. After all, it isn’t as if they’ve had much luck lately when it comes to ‘visitors.’

“I wish to speak to the king.”

“The king is resting. As you no doubt know, there was a battle fought today, and another to come tomorrow with the dragon queen.”

“Wake him,” the rider says. “He’ll wish to speak to me, I’m certain. He’ll want to know what I have brought with me.”

“And who should I tell him is demanding his presence at such a time?” The courtesan demands, finally showing more irritation than hesitance.

The rider lifts their chin and the hood falls back to reveal none other than a dirty and tired Arya Stark. The courtesan, recognizing the girl by their remembrance of the young Lyanna, gasps.

“His sister,” the girl replies confidently, voice low. The courtesan gapes a moment longer before turning and running back inside. Arya remains where she is and strokes the nose of her horse, knowing the old girl has had a long day and needs proper rest.

She doesn’t wait long before the doors to the fortress bang open and the light of burning torches cast an eerie, orange glow on the snow-covered courtyard. Leading the group is Jon, his dark hair wild around his face, a few scars etched there, dark circles beneath his eyes, but smiling so brightly that Arya’s heart aches. She doesn’t think before she launches herself at him; the one person in the world who always understood her. He holds her tightly, one hand clutching at her back and the other cradling her head. Her own arms clutch around his middle, her nose breathing in leather and blood from his hastily-donned tunic and vest.

“Arya,” he breathes, letting go just enough to clutch her face, his eyes holding a few tears that she knows are mirrored in her own. It has been so long since she’s seen him, and her heart feels near to bursting before she looks just past him to see her eldest brother, the one long-known to be dead.

“Robb!” She cries and Jon lets her go willingly, allowing her to throw herself into her other brother’s arms. Robb catches her easily, swinging her small body around in a circle as they laugh breathlessly. When he finally sets her down, they’re both crying in relief at seeing the other whole and safe.

“Where have you been?” Robb demands, holding her shoulders tightly and staring at her intently. Jon steps closer to see her face, a welcome sight after the horror of the day.

“There’s so much to tell you,” Arya shakes her head with a short laugh. “But, I have some people that also wish to see you.” She moves back towards the gates to Winterfell and nods to someone standing beyond the gates. After a moment, a group of armored men move to follow her inside.

At the head is a tall man, donned in fine armor and a shield bearing the image of an archer. It’s so familiar, but Jon cannot immediately place it as the handsome man with close-cropped hair steps forward at equal footing with Jon’s small sister. That is, until Sam suddenly lurches forward beside him.

“Dickon!”

The two men immediately embrace, Sam laughing while the other looks almost pained as he clutches the shorter body of his brother. Dickon Tarly, the man Randyll Tarly had deemed a worthier heir than Samwell. Though disapproving of that decision, looking at Dickon Tarly it is easy to see why Sam’s father would have thought the way he did. Where Sam is stout, Dickon is tall and straight-backed. Where Sam is fat, Dickon is well-muscled and broad in the shoulders. Dickon is the more handsome of the two, the more royal-looking. From the stories Sam has told, Jon knows him to be a skilled hunter and fighter, beloved by their father, and rarely allowed to interact with Sam. Sam never blamed Dickon for any of it, but Jon doesn’t know how the younger man might feel about his brother in return.

“Sam,” the man mutters, pulling back a little but keeping a firm grasp on his brother’s arm. “Sam, I’m so sorry. Father never – he never said that he – I’m so sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, brother.” Sam assures him. He casts a wary look at the knights behind Dickon before looking back up at the man. “What happened?”

“We were in the fight with Daenerys at Highgarden.” Dickon explains, his voice tired and mournful. “She…she came out of nowhere with her dragons and wiped out over half of the men. We couldn’t stop her, and Cersei Lannister took off soon after killing one of the dragons.” Dickon shakes his head sadly. “She took the rest of us as prisoners, and…”

“What is it?” Sam urges. “Where is father?”

“She demanded we bend the knee.” Dickon tells them, looking at Jon and Robb urgently. “She said that we could either follow her or lose our lives. Her dragon…it was terrifying. So many were frightened into submission, but father wouldn’t bend.” Dickon looks pleadingly at Sam. “He said that he wouldn’t recognize a foreign conqueror as queen, and she…”

“Dickon?”

“She had her dragon burn him alive as a lesson.”

There’s a stunned silence as this sinks in. Despite knowing what Randyll Tarly had done to Sam, how he had belittled and abused the other man, Jon knew that Sam would never wish such a terrible death on his father. Sam was too good to wish someone ill like that.

“What happened after that?” Sam whispers helplessly.

“The rest of us were taken with the other prisoners who bent the knee. We were kept in the back of their camp just south of here.”

“It’s where I found them.” Arya says.

“We should go inside,” Robb comments softly. Several of the men are clearly freezing out in the snow in their chainmail, and Jon pities the way they probably had been treated by the Dothraki in Daenerys’ camp.

“Come inside, get warm.” Jon says before instructing a few of the men to stable their horses for the night. They all then make their way into the Great Hall and sit down near the fire to discuss the series of events that had brought them here.

“How did you get here, Arya?” Jon asks once they’ve all settled. “Last we heard, Sansa said you had married Euron Greyjoy in her place so that she and Brienne could get away.”

“She did,” Sansa’s voice cuts in. They turn to see her swiftly entering the hall with Brienne, Podrik, and Theon at her back. After a moment, Meera appears wheeling Bran in. They both are more subdued after Howland Reed’s death earlier that day; unfortunately, Daenerys’ warning did not allow for anyone to mourn properly until a later time – if they were still alive by then.

“I did,” Arya agrees, standing and hugging her sister before moving to cling to Bran. When they separate, Arya clutches Brienne’s arm in a show of respect before nodding to both Meera and Pod. She then looks at Theon.

“Your uncle is dead,” she says. Theon blinks in surprise and then huffs out a humorless laugh.

“Asha will be glad to hear it.” He comments, sitting down beside Podrik.

“I killed him the night of our wedding and…I used his face to convince others that we were to come to Winterfell to help against the Night King.”

“Sansa said something about taking faces.” Robb says slowly. “One of the Faceless Men?”

“That’s an even longer story, I’m afraid, one we don’t have near enough time to get into right now.” She shakes her head seriously. “I got the ship ready and, as Euron, set sail for the coast. We were about a day from reaching land when we were caught in a horrid storm, bringing freezing rain and hail. It ripped the sails to shreds until finally the ships were being cast against jagged rocks. Only a few ships survived the storm. My ship was not so lucky.

“I ended up losing Euron’s face and only barely made it to shore. By then, the other ships had already beached and were looking for any other survivors. I told them Euron had died in the storm and…well, since we were in no position to name a successor, I became the unofficial queen of Pyke as Euron’s wife.”

“Gods,” Theon mutters, running a mutilated hand through his hair. Jon frowns at Arya seriously.

“What happened after that?”

“We had lost so many people and weapons that I convinced them our only choice was to keep going to Winterfell. We trekked for days before we came upon a hunting party.”

“A hunting party?”

“I don’t know who they were, but they attacked us, and I only just managed to get away by hiding under some hay on their carts. I travelled like that, hidden in the cart, until they came upon a group of large, dark-skinned men in furs who slaughtered them.

“The Dothraki,” Robb murmurs and Jon nods.

“They left the cart, so I waited for them to move on before following them. Apparently, they’d come from a larger camp of the same sort of men just west of here. Whoever they were, Dothraki, you said?”

“Yes,” Jon nods.

“Well, they’re spread far around Winterfell, and I began making my way around their line, trying to find a way to sneak through and get to Winterfell. That’s when I came upon them.” She motions towards Dickon, who nods.

“We saw her in the trees. We knew if those horrible people saw her…well, she’s young and pretty.” Dickon winces. “We’ve seen what they’ve done to a few different women we’ve come across in local villages.”

Jon sighs mournfully, wishing he’d been able to warn the villagers south of Winterfell before Daenerys’ army had invaded.

“I’m small, so they hid me in a pile of their shields.”

“It was the only thing they allowed us to keep,” Dickon explains. “They have no use for shields. At nightfall, we made a plan to slit the throats of the guards and, if we could move fast enough, she could get us to Winterfell. We didn’t know the way, but she did.”

“They chased for a while, but I managed to get a whole of one of their faces.” Arya’s eyes glint wickedly when she says this, and Jon feels a shiver run down his spine at the dark look. “I got them to go a different direction and then helped get us all to Winterfell.”

“I’m glad you all made it alright,” Robb tells them.

“We lost a few men in the initial chase,” Dickon admits. “But not as many as I thought we would have.”

“Why was House Tarly fighting _against_ House Tyrell?” Jon suddenly asks with a frown. Dickon shifts anxiously.

“Father believed…it was better to join Cersei than go against her. We all knew what she’d done at the Sept.”

“I see,” Jon nods slowly. “Well, I’m sorry to say there won’t be much rest just yet for you all. Daenerys is coming tomorrow to fight.”

“We know,” Dickon nods solemnly. “Give us a few hours to sleep somewhere warm, and we will offer our support in your war, Your Grace.”

“I thank you for that,” Jon nods to him. “And for keeping my sister safe.”

“Honestly,” Dickon smiles softly, his white teeth glinting in the dim light of the fire. “She saved us more than we saved her.”

Arya nods respectfully to him as a servant comes to show the few remaining Tarly men where they might rest for a few hours before dawn. Jon reaches across the table to clutch Arya’s hand.

“We have so much to talk about when this is all over.”

“Yes,” Arya agrees, using her other hand to grab Robb’s hand. “Sansa told me you two were in love.” She looks between them. “I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”

“Jon isn’t our brother.” Sansa says softly. Arya blinks at her before frowning at her older brothers.

“It’s true,” Jon nods.

“He’s the son of our Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“You’re a _Targaryen_?!” Arya gasps, dropping both of their hands.

“Apparently,” Jon shrugs tiredly. “And tomorrow Daenerys is probably going to find out and kill me for it.”

“I won’t let her.” Arya says firmly.

∞

There is no sun the next day, hidden as it is behind the grey clouds above. Yet, at midday, Daenerys and her two dragons wait for him on the eastern edge of the field they had fought on the day before. There are still bones of wights scattered across the landscape

The Dothraki are dark and imposing against the bleak daylight, the Unsullied in straight lines and staring forward unflinchingly. Tyrion Lannister stands beside the dragon queen, his arms behind his back and his eyes looking worried.

Jon’s own army is still battered from the previous day, but all who are able stand to his back without hesitation. The Tarly’s stand close to the front, so Daenerys can see them clearly.

The dragon queen begins moving to the center of the field and Jon moves to meet her. When Robb begins to walk with him, Tyrion quickly moves forward to match Daenerys. When they reach middle ground, Daenerys lifts her chin to stare at him.

“You’ve made your decision?” She demands.

“The North will never bow to another conqueror.” Jon says firmly. “Not ever again.”

“Then I suppose you shall see what happens to things that do not bend.”

“Yes,” Jon narrows his eyes at her. “I imagine we will.” She turns and walks back to her line and Jon and Robb turn to do the same when Tyrion stops them.

“Don’t do this.” He tells them lowly. “Don’t risk the remaining family you have left.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon frowns at him. “Your own brother has come to our side. Will you not do the same?”

“I…will not.” Tyrion frowns, though his eyes flick to his brother atop his white horse. He quickly makes way to follow Daenerys and Jon turns with Robb at his side.

“We can do this,” Robb assures him. Behind him, the dragons screech and launch themselves off the ground.

∞

Of all the things Robb has learned in his life, it is that war is a hell which no man can ever escape. Long after the wounds have healed, and the bruises have gone from purple to green to yellow and finally disappeared altogether, the scars on the mind remain vivid pink and painful.

Westerosi history is a history of a thousand wars fought for a thousand reasons. This battle, between two Targaryens, one a conqueror, the other a lost son, will become just another in a long line of battles fought and won by someone for a cause greater than themselves.

But there is no such thing as a just war, Robb knows. He knows this as Jaime Lannister rides into the swell of Dothraki Blood Riders, that he does so not for the justice of having done the right thing, but for his own sense of loss of a family he could never claim.

He knows this as he watches an enraged Ellaria Sand vengefully impale a Northern teenager that justice was not what she was fighting for. She was fighting for a man long dead and for the daughters she claimed not by blood but by something much deeper: love.

He knows this as he watches Brienne of Tarth take a machete to the chest, brought to her knees by the blow and panting harshly against the weight of her death. Robb has to look away.

He knows this as he watches Daenerys’ dragons breathe fire upon the towers of Winterfell and feels his own rage swell inside his belly. He urges his horse towards the gates not for justice, but for the hope that he might reach the dragon queen before anyone else.

Of course, she sits atop her dragons and away from the swords and spears that might strike her down on the ground. But what she seems to have forgotten, is that she is not the only one here with a dragon.

Somehow, Jon has made his way to race across the stone walkway atop the walls of Winterfell. Without hesitation, Robb watches as his brother leaps from the great height and disappears around the sharp stone corner of the fortress before a roar breaks across the sky and Jon rises, having landed atop the back of the great, white beast.

The dragon’s voice shakes the ground as Winterfell burns and the war rages on, but Robb finds himself watching as the dragons circle one another. The eyes of two Targaryens meet high above the ground, and both dragons arch towards one another with the thought of blood.

∞

Sansa is rounding up the many women and children trembling in fear as they feel the shaking of the stone floor beneath them. She is helping a young girl and her mother towards the dungeons when Margaery cries out beside her. She’s clutching her belly as she falls to her knees. This far along in her pregnancy, it can only mean one thing.

“This child has some timing,” an older woman mutters, motioning for a few other girls to help her lift Margaery and find somewhere safe. Sansa spares a moment to watch them take her before going back to helping those still unsure where to go.

“We need to get to the south side of the dungeons!” She calls above the roar of chaos. A few nod and turn to start ushering those around them. After making sure everyone has been taken care of, Sansa rushes to find Margaery.

∞

It is on the battlefield that Arya sees Gendry for the first time in years. His hair is shorn, his shoulders much broader, and he fights with a rage that was not there when he’d been taken from her so many years before.

He doesn’t notice her eyes on him, but it’s for the best as they both are in the midst of a battle for the fate of Westeros. Arya has seen her family taken too many times for her to let the dragon queen kill anyone else.

Gendry will survive, and they will be reunited once it is over. She promises this to herself and goes back to her war.

∞

“Breathe, my dear,” the old woman says, kneeling between Margaery’s legs as she cries in pain. Her hair is stuck to her face with sweat and Sansa sits near her head, dunking a towel in a bowl of melted snow to lay across her forehead.

Margaery lets out a sob as the baby attempts to fight its way out. Sansa leans forward and places a soothing kiss to her temple.

“You can do this,” she assures the older girl.

“ _PLEASE!_ ” She shrieks, though of what she is begging and of whom, no one can be certain. The old woman shushes her expertly as she instructs another girl to fetch more towels. The dungeon shudders as something hits the ground above their head and everyone flinches. Margaery whimpers as the spasms stop for a moment and Sansa dabs her forehead, hoping that it will all end soon.

∞

Daenerys is enraged as Rhaegal’s body hits the ground, bleeding from the large chunk of skin taken from him by the white beast the bastard king rides. Between her legs, Drogon is obviously just as furious as he takes off after the other dragon, fire erupting from between his teeth with each breath.

The beast before them suddenly takes a dive and Drogon turns to follow quickly, and Daenerys clings tightly to his scales to stay seated atop him. It won’t do to have her fall from his back before she has the opportunity to eat the heart of the other dragon rider.

Jon is having a hard-enough time staying atop his own dragon, as he’s never ridden something like this in all his years. When the beast beneath him falters, Jon looks back to see the Daenerys’ dragon has dug his massive claws into the place where his dragon’s tail meets his back. With a screech, the dragon swings itself around and Jon slips to the side. He catches himself just before he is fully unseated, but he sees the sharp grin on the dragon queen’s face at his struggle.

He grits his teeth as the white dragon lunges forward to meet the other, snapping its jaw as it does so. The other breathes a huge gust of fire towards Jon and he ducks away. The fire sears across the white scales and the dragon lets out a guttural sound before ramming its big head into the neck of the other dragon.

Jon looks up just in time to see Daenerys fall.

∞

She lies still in death, her chest unmoving, and blood pooling beneath her.

Sansa brushes a curl from Margaery’s pale forehead. The baby squalls a few feet away, wrapped in a fresh blanket and hugged by the old woman. A boy, Sansa was told, but her eyes were only on the still form of Margaery Tyrell, the former queen of Westeros, only living member of House Tyrell.

 _At least Cersei did not get to take her_ , Sansa thinks, her hand still holding onto Margaery’s now-cold, limp fingers. Her other hand continues to brush soothingly through the other woman’s curls, despite her no longer being able to register such a gentle touch.

Above them, the war is still raging on, and a roar of a dragon finally brings Sansa’s gaze away from Margaery’s motionless form. She looks up at the dark, stone ceiling above her in fright and, for the first time in many years, begins to pray.

∞

With a luck Jon himself has never possessed, Daenerys only falls a few feet before she lands on her back against the stone of the wall of Winterfell. The white dragon swings its great body near the wall and Jon slides off of its back to stand atop it. Daenerys pushes herself back to her feet and they simply look at one another for a moment. Jon warily watches her before his eyes are drawn to the growing flames of one of Winterfell’s many towers. Daenerys meets his gaze, a cold fury in her violet eyes. Drogon gives a cry before racing off, the white dragon giving chase and leaving the Targaryen children behind.

“As it should be, Jon Snow, we have only one another to contend with, it seems.”

“What is a dragon queen without any dragons here to fight for her?” Jon asks her, still nervous about the growing flames around them.

“Still more of a dragon than you could ever be.” She sneers, laughing as she realizes he is scared of the growing flames. “You are afraid of the fire, but a Targaryen can withstand such a thing.”

“You are not the only Targaryen standing on this wall.” Jon informs her. Daenerys’ violet stare narrows at him.

“You claim to be a Targaryen? If you are attempting to unsettle me, you’ll have to come up with a more convincing lie.”

“I have no need to lie,” Jon tells her, stepping closer as the flames reach ever higher. “My father was your brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. My mother was the woman he kidnapped all those years ago, Lyanna Stark, betrothed to Robert Baratheon.”

Daenerys searches his eyes for the lie but sees only the dark gaze of the confident man before her. She has had quite enough of ‘confident’ men in her time.

“And who told you this, _Lord Snow_?” She snaps at him.

“No one truly needed to tell me for the truth to be clear.” Jon shakes his head and takes yet another step closer, nearly breathing the same air as her. “Fire cannot kill a dragon,” he makes sure to meet her gaze fully and says, “but I can.”

Suddenly, the dagger he had used to kill the Night King only the day before has pierced her heart. Daenerys gasps sharply and looks down at the hilt of the blade glinting mockingly at her in the light of the flames nearly upon them.

“You –“

“I am Jon Stark, raised by Eddard Stark, son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon informs her, never breaking their stare. “And you will never rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

∞

Robb is fending off an Unsullied attacker when the white dragon races across the sky, breathing blue fire onto the Dothraki in front of him. Robb realizes that Jon is no longer seated on its back, and Daenerys and her dragons are nowhere to be seen. Fearfully, Robb tries to find either of them in the thick of bodies fighting, but he sees neither black curls nor white braids anywhere.

Suddenly, one of Winterfell’s towers collapses under the attack of flames currently overtaking the fortress. The loudness of the crash seems to stop the fighting as they all turn to see Winterfell burning against the grey sky which is darkening as it nears nighttime. The day had gone with little victory for either side.

Suddenly, a figure appears in the flames and members of the Dothraki and the Unsullied begin to loudly celebrate. Robb’s heart drops, realizing it is Daenerys emerging from the flames, victorious in her fiery glory.

Robb’s sword hits the ground in defeat as he watches the figure move, but then he catches sight of something that could not possibly belong to Daenerys Targaryen: leaping from the flames is a white wolf followed by that dark silhouette. The figure, clothes burnt away and falling to pieces across his white shoulders and unburnt flesh has dark curls and a determined look on his face as he steps from the flames and onto the field of battle.

The Dothraki and the Unsullied all cease their cheers as they realize that the person who steps from the flames is not their queen, but a lone man crowned King in the North.

“I don’t understand,” an Unsullied soldier near Robb says softly, a tight frown on his dark face. “How did he…”

“Your queen was not the only dragon to walk among us.” Robb tells him, giving him a significant look before moving forward to meet his brother. The fighting has mostly stopped as everyone is looking in shock at Jon, who stands in the snow before them unblinkingly.

“Jon,” Robb says softly once he gets close enough to him. Jon’s shirt and pants are barely hanging together, burnt as they are. His boots have mostly melted away, and his hair is singed at the ends. Still, he appears unharmed.

“She’s dead.” Jon tells him quietly before looking over his husband’s shoulder and repeating, louder: “The dragon queen is dead.”


	19. A Dance of Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. Please enjoy this final chapter :)

The death of the Night King and the death of the dragon queen do not end the winter. The maesters still claim it will be the longest winter in a thousand years, and they’ve only just gotten through the second. Despite it not being the common tradition, it becomes necessary to burn the bodies simply because taking them back home is impossible in the winds and snow, and there is no way to dig graves in the frozen ground. Every day sees two or three bodies honored at the pyre before succumbing to the flames. Every day a new pyre is built for the next day.

Jon makes a point to attend each one, no matter the many important matters still at hand. First, the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Both seem, even after almost two moons, shocked that their great queen could have died. To them, she was a symbol of a great change underway; they had not seen that she was no change, only more of the same. They fight now for Jon’s head most days, or else threaten to start yet another war in her honor.

Yet, they don’t have the numbers to fight off the Northern forces. Nearly half their numbers had fled within the few days following Daenerys’ death or had succumbed to the cold that they were unprepared for. Most of the deserters were Dothraki, which is worrisome to Jon, leading to the second matter: is Jon meant to let the rest of them loose on Westerosi soil, or somehow get them back across the sea? They all know that the Dothraki are a people known for their intense violence, raping and pillaging. It would be no different, most Northerners claim, than letting the horde of Euron Greyjoy’s army to run amok. Interestingly enough, Asha and Theon agree with the Northern lords and claim something needs to be done first with the Dothraki who were deserting, then the others.

The third is the Unsullied and the myriad of “freed” slaves to have been transplanted onto this foreign land and who are now without the guiding hand of their queen. It was agreed that those freed slaves were to be welcomed into the safety Winterfell could provide for the winter weather, but the Unsullied are a different matter. Jon is reminded near daily that the Unsullied were created through the murder of infants in the sight of their mothers. It makes Jon nauseous to even think about, and his thoughts often lead to the newborn left behind by Margaery Tyrell. The child, a chubby little boy with thin, silky gold hair is without parents at the moment, though kept in good care by many of the Northern women.

Fourth, now that the two greatest external threats have been eliminated, questions are continuously raised about Jon’s plans for Cersei Lannister in King’s Landing. Truthfully, Jon has no desire to see the woman in this lifetime or any other, but he knows it will be a necessary meeting to determine the fate of Westeros. So many deaths have already occurred because of these squabbling houses that Jon fears what could happen should he attempt to bring a force to King’s Landing.

Fifth, less important than those other points but no less crucial to Jon’s own mental stability, is that he and Robb are known to be a couple and he the lost son of Rhaegar Targaryen, which raises a lot of questions about bloodlines. Some of the Northern lords shudder to think they’ve named a Targaryen boy as their king, and there’ve been whisperings that they plan to overthrow him and reinstall Robb to his status as King in the North. None of this is helped by the incestuous history that the Targaryens have claimed for centuries. It seems to only grant more fuel to the fire.

“I won’t allow it.” Robb tells him firmly.

“I don’t think they care if you want it or not,” Jon tells him, sitting against the stone wall behind their bed. It’s strange that for once, Jon appears more relaxed on the bed whilst _Robb_ does the pacing.

Robb opens his mouth to respond when a sharp knock sounds at the door. Robb sighs and turns to open it, only to find Lord Baelish staring at him. The man is red-faced and breathing heavily, obviously having hurried here from wherever he had been.

“Lord Baelish?” Jon questions curiously, sliding off the bed to step behind Robb.

“I apologize for the late hour of my arrival,” Baelish spews quickly, pushing past Robb and towards the fire. “I needed to ask you about _this._ ” He lifts from his pocket a ruby necklace that Jon recognizes instantly.

“Why do you have the Lady Melisandre’s necklace?” Jon asks, striding across the stone floor towards the man. Baelish lays it on a side table shakily and sinks into a nearby chair.

“She had asked me to retrieve supper for her this evening; she said she wasn’t feeling well. I went back just now to retrieve the tray, expecting she’d be asleep…”

“But she wasn’t?” Robb frowns, not understanding what the older man is sputtering about.

“She was taking a bath.” Baelish snaps frantically.

“And you…walked in on her?” Jon asks, confused. “And stole her necklace?”

“She wasn’t _wearing_ it, and she – she looked – I mean, her _face_ was –“

“Lord Baelish, please, what is it?” Robb demands.

“She was _old_ , as if she’d been living for a century, not some forty years!” Baelish waves his hand hysterically at the necklace. Jon and Robb have never seen the man so unhinged. Robb lifts the necklace by a single finger and looks at Jon.

“An enchantment?”

“I fear that it’s all true, Your Grace,” Baelish looks to Jon imploringly. “She’s cast spells on herself, it’s only certain she’s cast some on the rest of us, as well. All her prophecies, who _knows_ what lies she’s told –“

“And you would know all about that, would you not, Lord Baelish?”

The voice comes from the chamber doorway. Bran sits in his chair, staring idly at the scene of men by the fire. He rolls himself forward to meet the man’s eyes better.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Baelish scowls at the boy.

“It began with our mother, yes? With Catelyn Tully and her fine, red hair and her kind smile. You loved her.” Bran continues as if the man before him hadn’t spoken. “She was promised to Brandon Stark and you resented the man for being stronger, more handsome, and you hated him for winning the only fight of swords you ever entered. He took Catelyn from you, and then he was murdered by the Mad King and instead of running to your arms, she was given to the next heir of Winterfell, Eddard Stark. A man who never had to fight for her, but who won her all the same.

“And you, Lord Baelish, you _hated_ him more than anything for taking the life you thought you deserved. You _hated_ him for the son Catelyn bore him and for the son of a whore he brought back from war and you _hated_ that she still did not come back to you. And when finally, after so many years, you realized that you could use her sister’s affections for you against her, you lied and planned and plotted to bring about a feud that tore the Stark family to shreds.

“Now you, of course, did not think that Lord Stark would _die_ , but you thought if he was sent to the Wall for treason, then maybe, _just maybe_ , Catelyn would realize that she could only trust you, the man who appeared to have only tried to help Ned find the truth.” Bran shakes his head. “But the truth, instead, was that you held a knife to my father’s throat and said _‘I did warn you not to trust me._ ´ And maybe Ned’s death was performed at the word of King Joffrey, it was you who made it possible for our father to be stood on that platform that day. It was you who started a feud that ended in not only Catelyn’s own death, but the death of her eldest son and his wife and unborn child.

“And then, when you no longer could play with poor Catelyn Tully, you turned your sights to the girl who looked so very much like her, too young to see you for what you were, who believed you wanted to help her. And you took that girl to the only living family she thought she had left and you murdered her aunt in order to ‘save’ her and then you sold her to Roose Bolton, but ended up giving her to an even worse monster than the one who put the final knife in Robb Stark’s chest.

“And now, Lord Baelish, you’ve become entranced by a witch who, yes, has a penance of her own to pay, but you yourself have many sins to atone for. After all, you built this ladder of chaos and only now do you realize that you’ve climbed into the belly of a witch.”

“And there is no justice in the world, Lord Baelish.” That is Sansa’s voice, and Robb turns to see the woman walk into the room quietly, her gaze locked with the man who once called himself her protector, her guardian, the only family she had left. But not anymore. “Not unless we make it.”

∞

Melisandre is standing with her back to the chamber door, facing the fire, when they come in. Long, grey hair falls to her buttocks, her red dress clinging to sagging and aged skin. Jon stands in the doorway, Robb at his back with two guards, but he makes no move to go near her. After a moment, she turns and Jon startles at the old face staring back at him.

“Jon Snow,” she croaks, her voice no longer as low and melodious as it had once been. The necklace that had given her so much was smashed to bits by Robb’s boot after they’d taken Baelish to a cell to await a trial for his crimes against House Stark.

“Lady Melisandre,” Jon greets her in return. “I assume you understand why we are here?”

“Frankly, my king, I cannot say. I have not committed a crime, as far as I am aware?”

“You have. As if burning a small child to death wasn’t enough; it is something I am sorry to say I neglected to punish, and I can only hope one day Ser Davos will forgive me. But you were using dark means to compel me to trust you.”

The woman smiles at him gently, as if looking upon a silly child. “Oh, Jon Snow.” She shakes her head fondly. “You know nothing.”

“I know enough to say that you are sentenced to death for the murder of Shireen Baratheon, and treason against me, who you have claimed as your king.”

“Then so be it, _my king_.” The woman simply continues to smile at him. The two guards step into the room and take ahold of her at her upper arms. Before they can move her along, she looks at Jon, her smile morphing into a thin, serious line. “But know this: the dead will rise again, Jon Snow. For now, the evil is laid to rest, but it is not gone. Make no mistake, there will always be need for protection against that which seeks to destroy humanity.”

Jon nods, understanding her warning but knowing that no prophecy or miracle can spare her now, and allows the guards to take her down to her cell beside Lord Baelish. Jon turns to Robb to find the man frowning back at him.

“They’ll return? The Night King and his army?”

“Without a doubt,” Jon nods. “Azor Ahai reborn to do battle, but not to end the darkness completely. There will always be another evil.”

“Then we shall pray to the gods that it is another thousand years before that happens and we are long from this world.”

“Agreed,” Jon steps towards him and cups Robb’s cheek, tilting his head so that their foreheads rest together. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Robb replies easily, his arm wrapping softly around Jon’s waist. “We have a lot yet to do.”

“Yes,” Jon sighs, leaning back and stepping away from his husband’s warmth. “I suppose we should get to it.”

∞

The snow is falling quite heavily as Melisandre is lead out into the courtyard and up onto a small platform. There are gasps from the crowd as she appears before them in her aged glory, red dress looking like blood against the white snow. She is made to stand still as Gendry settles the noose around her neck. At the front of the crowd is Arya, standing straight-backed and serene as she gazes upon the woman.

“Such a darkness in you, girl.” Melisandre tells her gently. Arya tilts her head in acknowledgement to the warning that the Red Woman had given her all those years ago when she’d taken Gendry away.

“You were always on my list.” Arya tells her in return.

Beside Melisandre is Petyr Baelish, noose already tucked under his chin, looking wide-eyed and horrified to find himself in such a position. His eyes land pleadingly on Sansa, standing between her sister and Bran in his chair.

“Lady Sansa,” the man begs pitifully, “please. Don’t do this.”

Sansa does not deign to reply, just looks to Jon to get on with it.

“If you have any last words, my lady, my lord,” Jon says, stepping forward on the platform to gaze upon them. “Now is the time.”

“I have made my peace with death, my king. Do as you must.” Jon looks to Lord Baelish.

“I cannot be blamed for it all. I played the game, just like everyone else.”

“And Lord Stark died for it.” Jon tells him simply. “Along with many others.”

And with that, Jon swings his sword and cuts the line which separates the floor panel from the platform, causing the witch’s and Littlefinger’s bodies to snap down into the noose and jerk violently as their necks snap, their breath is held by the rope, until finally they rest.

Jon looks to Robb, who is staring at him with deeply held love and admiration. Jon clings to it like a lifeline, knowing that it is only with this man at his side that any of them have survived.

∞

 

_13 Years Later_

The winter had ended only a year before, and in that time, the changes to Westeros were significant and well-under way. The plans, drawn up through a series of meetings, messages by ravens, and travelling when the weather let up enough to allow for it, had taken many years to be proofed, accepted, and set into motion.

It was agreed that the years of war and violence hadn’t been solely caused by the conquering of Aegon, but they had significantly increased after his arrival, with such a large area governed by a single person. Therefore, a proposal had been made and ratified to once more break up the kingdoms, with some adjustments.

Cersei Lannister, having had half her army and all her people turn against her once word came that Jon Snow had killed Daenerys Targaryen _and_ the King of the Dead, had had no choice but to accept the plans that were made largely without her input. She was sent back to Castery Rock with the remaining members of her Queen’s Guard, to live out her days in exile there. She would no doubt be pampered and well-taken care of in her luxurious palace, but it was accepted that as long as she remained there, most would allow for her to go without further punishment for her many crimes.

The kingdoms were broken up similarly to how they had once been, with a few changes. Casterly Rock would no longer be the royal house of that region. Instead, the merging of the area that held Highgarden with Casterly Rock was deemed appropriate. The title of Highgarden, since no member of the Tyrell House was around to claim it, was given instead to the next greatest house of the area, House Tarly. Dickon Tarly had offered the claim to his brother, Samwell, as the eldest, but Sam had refused. Dickon, then, was named King of the Reach. The title of King of the Rock was no more.

Dickon had come to Jon and Robb only a year after his title was made official to ask for Sansa’s hand in marriage. The question was not unexpected, as the two had shared a fondness for one another in many moons following the end of the wars in the north. Jon and Robb, deciding that it was Sansa’s choice alone, were happy to give their blessing when the woman had accepted the offer. Robb was joyful for his sister, knowing that after all the hardships and cruelties she had faced, Dickon’s loyalty and kindness were a much-needed pillar to help the woman grow even more into the smart, beautiful being she had turned out to be. Arya often teased that all those stories about handsome knights and strong kings and castles in the warm south – tales Sansa had long since given up believing – had all somehow come true in the end. Despite them said in jest, Arya was delighted to see that Sansa had gotten everything she had ever wanted.

Arya, too, had her desires met. The splitting of the kingdoms meant Gendry was offered the Stormlands, which had once belonged to House Baratheon. He had quickly informed Jon in no uncertain terms that to be a king was a nightmare he did not wish to endure. Instead, he wished to follow Arya as she took a ship west to explore what might be there. It turned out her many years of moving throughout the kingdoms following Ned Stark’s death had given her only more taste for adventure. Gendry knew that if he didn’t go with her, he’d never see her again, and it was a future he didn’t wish to consider.

Instead, with Pyke nearly in ruins after Euron’s great need for new ships, the Stormlands were offered to Asha Greyjoy to rule in exchange for the end of reeving and raping across the mainland – something she happily gave up after having witnessed Theon’s hatred for the practice after his captivity.  

Robyn Arryn was named King of the Vale, though everyone knew that the boy had no use for the title since it was his advisors who would be making the decisions. The Riverlands were given back to House Tully, with Edmure having been reinstated as the heir with his wife, Roslin, and his baby son whom he’d never met until the death of Walder Frey. The man, though once being a nuisance and unlikely to ever be a responsible ruler, was determined to do right by his family now that he was returned to them. Surprisingly to everyone else, Roslin Frey was overjoyed to have her husband back, as well.

Meera was the sole inheritor of the Crannogmen with her father’s death, and her marriage to Bran a few years after the war meant that they returned to her home together. Bran was more than happy to go with her, to a reclusive people who would not ask questions about the strange boy who often went into trances. Instead, the quiet of the swamp lands did him more good than harm. Meera, happy to be home and to know her place once again, was like a woman reborn in her ambition and enthusiasm.

With the joining of Casterly Rock with Highgarden, and Cersei’s banishment there, it left a million citizens in King’s Landing unsure of their own fate. Jon surprised Tyrion by suggesting his return to take it over, making him King of the Landing. The man had, amazingly, been quite efficient as Master of Coin and had turned the city around in his short time whilst Joffrey had been king. Varys left with him, and the both had plans to make arrangements with the Iron Bank. Jon wished them good luck and was glad to see the two cunning men gone from the simple and stubborn ways of the North.

Ellaria Sand and her daughters returned to Dorne to rebuild the ruins of the rebellion which had taken over in their absence after the death of Prince Doran. Though it would take time, Jon was almost excited to see what changes would come about now that two supposed bastards were kings and queens in their own right. A Snow and a Sand, both sitting on their own thrones and hoping to do what was right for their people. Jon worried, occasionally, about the pigheadedness that Ellaria and her daughters were prone to showing, but Robb convinced him that by splitting up the kingdoms, it made sure that Ellaria would either do what was right for her people, or they would do to her what was done to the former Martell prince.

The union between Jon and Robb was slowly accepted by everyone, especially once Jon crowned Robb alongside him. It became clear with time that Jon was, in fact, the spitting image of stalwart Ned Stark, and Robb kept him sharp and well-informed in turn. The both balanced each other well, and soon the strangeness of the blood relations and the marriage of two men became an unremarked upon joining of kings to rule peacefully.

Worries about an heir to the North were quickly abated with the news that the child of Margaery Tyrell and Tommen Baratheon, a child called Tommen Baratheon _Stark_ , nursed and looked after by Gilly, would be raised in the ways of the North to rule once Jon and Robb had passed. Surprisingly, most were convinced quickly with the assurance that the child, though not a product of Northmen, would still be raised as one, under the direct guidance of Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, King in the North alongside the _other_ King in the North, named for his bravery and willingness to protect the North despite his bastard name – or, later, despite his _Targaryen_ lineage.

Samwell returned to Oldtown to complete his work as a Maester, with the proof he needed to write many tomes about the dead, the evidence for the First Men’s fight against them, and to write a history of the Second Great War of the Dead. Jon knew that the history books Sam could write would gain him a place amongst the many scholars there in no time, and when he had completed his training, he would return to the North to stand at Jon’s left and guide him alongside Robb.

Davos, much to Jon’s amusement, had adopted Lyanna Mormont as his own and returned to Bear Island to help in the reconstruction after it was destroyed by the fall of the Wall. Lyanna, though she was loathe to admit it, was quite fond of the older man in return and could barely contain her smile of pleasure when the man asked, with all the respect of a man addressing a great ruler, to stand at her side for the work ahead of her.

They were not alone in their return to the Wall. With Melisandre’s warning, it was agreed that the Wall needed to be rebuilt and the Night’s Watch needed to be reborn. The _new_ Seven Kingdoms had all agreed to send an annual allotment of men to the Wall to help. They would no longer be required to remain celibate or without honor (as, it hadn’t really worked in the first place), but instead it was a place that had to be _earned_ , not only given to thieves as punishment. A system of commendations and ranks was being written up at the current moment to entice more men to join – men allowed to bring their wives and children. Alongside them, many of the Free Folk also began building villages farther North where they were comfortable and where Free Folk were more than happy to volunteer to help guard the Wall.

Jaime Lannister, having endured a change of character in the many years since Jon Arryn had died and having lost not only Cersei to her madness but also Brienne in the war was named the 1000th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Despite the man’s hatred of the cold, he was glad to have a job that would last him many years and keep him busy for as long as it took.

∞

It is ten years nearly to the day that Jon and Robb hold a celebration and are _officially_ married under the Weirwood Tree before the Northern lords. Meera and Bran are there to celebrate with their two sons, Jojen and Rickon. King Dickon and Queen Sansa came, with their son Ned, daughters Catelyn and Elenna, and Sansa heavily pregnant with a fourth child. Arya and Gendry were far from Westeros, still sailings gods only knew where, but Robb knew that wherever she was, she was certainly happy and loved.

Robb grins at Jon as they are greeted by so many friends and allies in the Great Hall of Winterfell. He finds himself admiring the dark-haired, beautiful man who he’d fallen in love with so long ago. Jon is the Prince Who Was Promised, the Lost Targaryen Prince, the White Wolf, and the Last Dragon. He looks beautiful with the crown and the dark velvet cloak across his broad shoulders. Robb smiles at his king and husband, knowing that the fight to get here was well worth it.

Afterwards, when Jon has danced with daughters and wined and dined with the remaining lords who speak of rebuilding and moving on, Robb finds Jon looking out at the vast Northern sky before them. The snows have almost completely melted away to reveal budding tree blossoms and the first signs of green grass.

“Your Grace,” Robb says tenderly, moving to his husband’s side. Jon smiles at him gently, his eyes soft.

“I missed having them here.” Jon admits, looking back to where Meera and Sansa are talking animatedly, Bran sitting quietly and watching his bride with a soft look. Jon brings the goblet of wine to his lips before offering it to Robb. Robb accepts the glass, taking a swig before setting it aside and reaching for Jon’s hand.

“Me too,”

“I just miss our _home_.” Robb knows without asking that Jon is referring to the home that Winterfell used to be, with Ned Stark gazing out at them in the practice field where Tommen is now showing Jojen how to shoot an arrow, with their brother Rickon learning to ride a horse and Arya dashing about to her mother’s eternal consternation. With Bran still able to climb across the roofs and rocks, and even Sansa, innocent and naïve in her belief in fairytales.

“You belong here, Jon. And I belong by your side.” Robb reminds his husband, knowing that Jon’s quiet is in thought about what comes next and if he’s ready for it; Jon is debating whether to stop right now and make Robb the _only_ king. He leans into Jon’s space with a drunken laugh. “And you know where else I belong?”

“Where?” Jon smiles indulgently at him, allowing the gorgeous redhead to invade his personal space. Robb’s lips are so close Jon feels his scorching breath ghost over his own mouth. When Robb speaks, his lips are like silk against Jon’s.

“Your bed,” Robb whispers, his voice liquid sin. Jon claims his mouth hungrily, not caring if anyone sees him not acting ‘kingly’; Robb is _his_.

“You do,” Jon agrees happily. “So, shall we get you there?”

“We most certainly should,” Robb tells him with a smirk. “But first, I demand you dance with me, my king.”

“Of course, my king.” Jon grins, linking their fingers together and guiding him to the center of the hall. The room quiets down as the kings come to the middle of the floor and Jon places his free hand on the Young Wolf’s waist. Robb squeezes Jon’s hand, his other hand placed gently on the White Wolf’s shoulder. Their eyes sparkle as the first chords are plucked.

They dance.

_fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me whenever!
> 
> 0urBladesAreSharp.tumblr.com  
> (First digit is a zero, not an oh)


End file.
